CHEATING. WIVES t | a yi 1 , Br t-te am oa) een 4 ae P 7 -) - 3 ad a : : Me Ug tess th Meee i tes hy). \ 5 me a3 ‘| — * aaSOB STORY He fought down a hatred at what Bruce Harder had inflicted on her. That her being should have been subjected to such ghastly attentions, that her slim, whipcord body should have been abused, her flesh violated, was sickening, But that was nof all. “There was a girl,” Leigh continued in a flat voice. “A girl who had been around. It didn’t take her long to figure me out. Oh, well. 1 experi- mented. One night she came up from downstairs, where Bruce was having one of his parties. First thing I knew she was doing some very pleasant things to me. i came alive to some of the most exquisite sensations | had ever known. All the bottled-up love and emotion came out like an explosion!” A small quake shook her. “Just about that time,” she said, “Bruce came in. It was horrible . . .”CHEATING WIVES @ BARRY DEVLINCharacters in this work are fictional Copyright © 1955 Barry Devlin All rights reserved Printed in the U.S.A. This book is published simultaneously in the Dominion of CanadaI HE First met her one afternoon in October as she was walking her dogs in Central Park. The dogs caught his eye at once—a pair of German shepherds, well-built, supple animals, obviously pure-bred. They had the un- mistakable bearing of dogs which know they are special. He shifted his glance to the owner. Standing next to a tree, absently whacking at a low-hanging branch with a limp leather lead, she was a slim figure in tweeds, long- legged and lithe. A pensive smile hovered on her mouth as she stared over the branch into some indefinable distance. He knew she was not seeing the wall of sky- scrapers that rose on every side like turrets. She wore low-heeled shoes and wool socks that came up to her knees, Under the tweed coat shé had on a beige turtle-neck sweater. Even when he opened with the most transparent of all gambits, “Fine dogs you have,” she did not alter her expression. Nodding vaguely, not looking at him, she continued to slap at the bark. He had always half-suspected that girls who walked dogs alone in the city were doing it in order to attract attention to themselves and to see how many men would try to meet them—dogs and girls, but mainly the girls. It was a certain pretentious, show-off attitude, and yet a foolproof one, for a woman rarely looks better than when striding along behind a good dog. Or two good dogs. “Yours?” he asked, feeling that since he had started he might as well follow through with the expected chit-chat. “Yes. Do you like dogs?” “Some. Used to have a shepherd myself, but not like these. It was just a shepherd.” The animals were watching him warily now, sniffing at him with the open curiosity that only animals have. Evi- 56 CHEATING WIVES dently they liked what they smelled, for they moved on, leaving their mistress alone. They moved surely, their ears erect, their tails wagging. The late afternoon sun shone on their smooth coats. “Isn't it kind of rough?—having dogs in the city, I mean.” He was in a rut, but he couldn’t help it. Yet he sensed in the girl, for an instant, that she did not resent the intrusion, that she was almost willing to talk. At first it surprised him, for he had lived often enough in New York to know that only professionals talked to strange men. Then he remembered that the shepherds both had powerful fangs and jaws, good enough to tear a man apart in a minute. “They are not in the city all the time.” The girl smiled her answer to reveal white, even teeth surrounded by a mobile, full-lipped mouth, Her complexion was flawlessly dark, with only a hint of make-up. Eyes greenish, set wide apart and expressive. Dark blonde hair hung lightly in tight curls over her ears. The high curves of her cheek- bones lent her face a faintly Oriental look. Under the disguise of the tweeds was a lean, resilient body with good legs, compact hips and firm breasts. It was pleasant to look at her, so uncomplicated was she. No, she was not a pretentious dog-walker after all, and he thought it would be nice to look at her for a long time. She was still at the tree, rhythmically slapping with the Jeather thong. The dogs busied themselves in the bushes, For an instant he envied all of them, mistress and animals, their camaraderie. In fact, he began to feel that he was butting in, that she was. merely tolerating him because she was raised that way. He didn’t know what else to say about pets. And she was not helping at all. He would have liked to suggest a drink or a cup of coffee or a cigarette, but she was not the type one picked up just like that. For all her friend- liness and receptivity, he detected a hard, resisting coreCHEATING WIVES 7 of dignity. Class. As pure-bred as her dogs, which in this case did not mean an insult. “You're very tanned,” she said suddenly. “Have you been in Florida?” She spoke detachedly, politely. “No. We—I—got back yesterday from the Near East. Arabia. Palestine. It gets hot there these days.” “I should imagine.” A change seemed to have come over her, as if she wero a little relieved that he was not an accountant or a street- car conductor on his day off. He was not a New Yorker. “Had you been there long?” she asked. “Two years. This is the second day of my annual leave. I had to come back to the park to see if it had changed.” “And has it?” He laughed. “Everything else changes, but not Central Park. The traffic gets worse and the advertising louder and the taxicab drivers nastier—but the park stays the same. Just like when I was a kid. The carousel, the lake, the children, the nurses, the zoo. Same camels and seals. All the same. Even pretty ladies walking their dogs.” “Yes.” Absently again, as though his words had set off a chain of thought. “Yes. All the same.” “Only the people change,” he said. She gave him a detached smile again. “Well, I'm off. Jupiter! Carrie!” she called in a low, husky voice. The dogs responded at once. “It’s been nice talking to you.” Already she had dismissed him and was walking away. “It bas been nice. Perhaps we'll meet again.” “Perhaps. Good-bye.” But from the way she said it he knew she didn’t really believe it. Or care... “Oh, Clay,” Betsy called from the bathroom. “Would you mind digging into the suitcase for some clean you- know-whats for me?” Clay Gordon rose from the portable typewriter that sat on the writing table and crossed the room to the twin8 CHEATING WIVES beds. On one was an open suitcase with its usual tangle of clothing, spilled powder and scented undies. He dipped a hand into the mess and came up with a black silk bra and matching panties. He went to the half-open door and stuck his hand through. “I do declare,” his wife’s voice said, “you are getting modest in your old age. Afraid I'll bite you or some- thing?” Clay chuckled. “Maybe. I’m trying to finish up this report for the Old Man and if I get a look at you in that tub, I'll be the one who's finished.” “How sweet. But why not take the chance? It’s been so long since you've seen me in a real live tub.” He pushed the door open. Betsy was just emerging and reaching for a towel. She made a face at him. “Too late.” She vigorously rubbed the towel to her wet skin. It was nice skin. Excellent skin. And bones and everything else. For a girl only five-two and weighing just over a hundred pounds she was gen- erously endowed with voluptuous lines. Damp brown hair clung to her skull and neatly framed a pretty face, puckish. Her breasts were cleanly round with droplets of water dripping off the pink tips. They were young, proud breasts that failed to yield and were without a hint of a sag. Amazing, Clay Gordon thought, in view of the fact that they had been subjected to some rather spirited love- making over the past year. But then Betsy was only twenty-one, very close to her physical peak. It occurred to him that he was very lucky to have Betsy as a wife. Nearly dry now, she took her lingerie from him and waited. So he fell into his part in the old rite of leering at her—silently whistling at her smooth, unlined waist and the slim taper of her legs. it was. amusing to see how the sun had browned her arms, legs and neck and midriff, offering a marked contrast to the more seques-CHEATING WIVES 9 tered parts of her anatomy, making her look as if she were perpetually clad in a white two-piece bathing suit. Still wet, she neared him, stood on tiptoe and cupped his face in her hands. “Clay Gordon, you big galoot. 1 Jove you, Know that? Even when you work too hard and don't pay any attention to the prettiest little wife you ever had.” Her lips were bath-warm on his mouth. The slim damp length of her body brushed his, “Why don’t you call the cops?” He grinned. “Who wants a cop? Tell you what—if you promise to be good Pil close the door and dress in here.” “And if I promise to be bad?” “Why, Dll dress in the room, of course. Dope.” Clay shook his head in mock exasperation. At times the ten-year disparity in their ages was like a yawning canyon. But often, like now, she could make him feel even younger than she was. “Tl compromise,” he said. “I'll be good ’n bad.” “Oho,” she chortled. “That’s an empty threat.” “You'll see.” Betsy turned to the tub and released the plug. Clay went back to the room. He sat down before the typewriter again and stared at the half-typed page in the carriage. It was a report, all right. The Old Man always demanded that each of his men, on their return from overseas, file one. Just as if he hadn’t been getting daily dispatches for the past seven hundred days. Probably wanted them for front-page editorials—or to read in the john. But it was not the report that gnawed at him now, al- though he could easily let Betsy think so. Actually he could do the report blindfolded with mittens on his hands. It was Betsy. After one whole year they were at last back in the States and she was ready to kick up her heels and have a good time. And here he was slowly sinking into a torpor, one of his grey somnolent moeds of semi-depression that10 CHEATING WIVES seized him every so often. She had gone through the mess of Iran and Turkey and Greece and the rest without one complaint. She ‘at least deserved someone half-conscious. She was still young, and weren't they in love? Well—weren't they? He caught a glimpse of her through the open door, one foot propped on the edge of the tub, as she dried her toes. Something in the view caught at his heart. Was he too old for her after all? When she came out, with the towel wrapped revealingly around her, Clay had turned back to the typewriter. She approached him, walking on tiptoe. She ran her fingers through his hair and tickled his neck. “Old sourpuss at the typewriter again. The Old Man,” she sniffed. “How about the Young Woman?” “How about the Big Paycheck?” “How about where you went this afternoon when I was asleep all alone in this big hotel.” “The park, that’s how about. I went over to Central Park and took myself a walk.” “Darn it. Why didn’t you tell me. I would like to have gone, too. Meet anybody interesting?” Clay hesitated a fraction of a second. “No,” he said, and immediately wondered why he didn't tell her about the girl with the dogs. Betsy made a sound that meant she was displeased, but at the same time she placed her lips to his ear and mois- tened the shell with her tongue. Clay shivered. He grunted, swung around and caught her by the waist and pulled her to his lap. Then he implanted a very sound and fierce kiss on the laughing mouth. For a moment she struggled against his strength, giggling and thrusting with her legs.’ Clay held her firmly. Abruptly she ceased and was warmly limp in his arms, pressing closely and eagerly. His hands found the familiar contours and caressed them knowingly with the gentle touch of a considerate lover.CHEATING WIVES 11 When he stood up he had his wife cradled in bis arms, a delicious burden. It was a scene they had enacted a hundred times before, but it was as fresh now and enticing as the first time. With infinite care and tenderness he carried her to the bed and lowered her to it. She looked up at him, eyes befogged with love. She watched him tug at his belt. “We'll be later for the dinner party,” she murmured coyly. Clay shrugged. “In that case—” He began to tighten the belt again. A smail, strong hand snatched at it. “Don’t listen to me,” Betsy said. “Don’t you know I’m a terrible liar? Phooey to the dinner party.” “Phooey to the Old Man, too?” “For now—phooey to everybody... except us...” He sank to her side, seeking the fresh, fragrant flesh. Tasting the breasts that were the same as yesterday but never quite the same. He felt the youthful form arch hungrily to him, meeting him halfway. “Oh, my darling,” Betsy breathed hoarsely. “I do love you so. I do. You'll never get bored or tired of me, will you?” “Never,” he said. Soft arms came around him, drawing him closer, until they seemed to be but one body with a single heartbeat. “T'm so afraid,” she said. “Ever since we landed yester- day I've been afraid. The city is so big and there are so many people. We were almost always alone over there. Thad you all to myself. Don't leave me alone for a single minute tonight, Clay. Promise?” “I promise,” he said huskily. “It’s silly of me, darling, but all of a sudden I wish we were on the ship again going back. Anywhere. Just going back,” His hands slid down her slim spine to the sweet curve of her hips. In the dimness his fingers seemed to have. eyes. “It is silly. We just got here. I thought you wanted12 CHEATING WIVES to have fun and sce people. Mes, it'll only be for a month. We can go to Minnesota and see the folks. Before we know it, it will be time.” “I hope so,” Betsy said in a half-sobbing voice. She embraced him almost angrily and rained kisses on his face. “I hope so.” Just before they sank into the delightfully spinning world they had created for themselves, Clay felt another dagger probe at his mind. Why had he lied to his wife about the girl in the park? The Old Man was not really old—he had just retained the name from his army days and reapplied it in the civilian world, and somehow it fitted perfectly. The transition took place with the precision of newly oiled gears. Bartley Harder knew how to do things. Among the things he knew how to do was keeping his underlings contented. As head of the Harder Wire Services he had a vast network of correspondents who roamed the globe for eye-witness accounts of the events that make news and history. Bart Harder thought of himself, therefore, as a public servant. To keep the organization humming he paid his people exorbitant salaries, supplied them with unlimited expense accounts and backed them up, whenever they were in trouble, with enormous influence and a fortune that resembled the national debt in size. In a way, this was slavery. All the good things showered on the people from above deadened their free will and prevented them from nosing around for better jobs. There simply weren’t any better jobs than with the Harder Wire Services. Eventually, if you worked there long enough, you became very chauvinistic and defensive about the place, going about with your own peculiar inverted pride. And you rather despised yourself for it. Some soreheads had described working for Bart Harder as “living in a benevolent despotism.”CHEATING WIVES 13 By giving his overseas workers a month's leave every year he was able to hold good men in locations which were notorious for their turnover of personnel. And when they came home he usually threw an intimate dinner party for the returning hero. Intimate meant families, key staff members, close friends and whatever prominent figures happened to be in town that day. Needless to say, the guest of honor was usually asked to say a few off-the-cuff words about his own personal views of the situation in Finland or Kenya or Indo-China or wherever. Con- sequently, invitations to these dinners, no matter who the honored returnee was, were highly prized. The Harder duplex on Park Avenue—he was dickering for a bigger and better place on Fifth—with its five bed- rooms, sunken living room, dining room on the terrace and assorted cubicles, was ideal for impressive social functions. Invariably, enough experts and pseudo-experts were on hand to insure lively—if not violent—discussions on the status of the British oil dispute in the Middle East, the chances of Khrushchev in the Kremlin, the power of the H-Bomb, the possibilities of certain well- known ladies of the entertainment world. Bart Harder took great pride in his guests, his employ- ees, his cuisine, his wife, his daughter, his position, his prestige, his looks, his down-to-earth personality, his charm, his virility and his powers as a raconteur. In short, he was a bore. But as far as the breadwinners were concerned, they knew they had to dance at the royal summons or risk court disfaver which often could mean dismissal and blackballing in the profession. The royal summons could also issue from Mrs. Harder. However, to the infinite relief of many, Joyce Harder did not take a fancy to all the correspondents. Just some, Which made it kind of a suspenseful guessing-game. Men who had covered civil wars, assassinations and sound- barrier breakings trembled at the thought of catching14 CHEATING WIVES Joyce Harder’s eye. Of course none ever really died, but many said they would prefer to face death again than have to be the object of her passions. She had learned that manuever when Bart was a briga- dier general during the war, a commanding officer of a small post in the West. All the young officers who ex- pected to get anywhere had first to pass the inspection of the general’s wife. Of course the general didn’t care—he was busy reminding the young wives of the young officers that they could do a great deal for their husbands—if they did as they were told and obeyed the CO. So it went. A very compatible arrangement, a partner- ship, so to speak. With it, Bart Harder had amassed a for- tune, created an empire and satisfied his libido. The first thing Clay Gordon noticed as he and his wife were shown into the duplex by the butler were two Ger- man shepherds. They lay crduched side-by-side in the foyer—heads alert, ears erect, tails motionless, eyes watchful. As he walked past them just behind Betsy, Clay could not resist stooping to pat the larger dog. “Hey, Jupiter,” he whispered, scratching the thick ruff of the neck. The dog’s tail thumped happily and the head lifted. “Friend of yours?” Betsy asked over her shoulder. “Or one of the editors?” Clay felt his face grow red. “Huh? Yes. Yes. Me and dogs, you know.” Betsy turned to give him a queer look and she almost tripped over a step. A moment later the butler was an- nouncing them and they were caught up in the modulated swirl of pre-dinner cocktails. A babble of voices and cul- tivated laughter. The whiskey flowed like a miniature Niagara. Clay shook hands with everyone and chuckled appreci- atively at the Old Man’s jokes and grimly accepted Joyce's compliments on how well he looked. It was not that Joyce wasn't attractive enough—she was, and looked a good tenCHEATING WIVES 15 years younger than her forty-four years. It was that she always seemed to wear gowns that were cut to her waist, exposing magnanimous portions of her superb breasts. And that she had a predilection for making her most blatant passes at you when within earshot of Bart. What could you do? Go ahead and accept it and set the time and place—and thereby risk being clobbered by the Old Man? Or brush her off and take the chance that Joyce would turn in a negative report to her husband? The less Clay saw of Joyce at the party, the better he liked it. At first Betsy stuck close to him, holding his hand like a scared kid at a circus, yet managing to keep up the con- versation, knowing that she was as much on trial as Clay. Finally Bartley broke them up by herding her into a cor- ner where a senator and a magazine publisher proceeded to tell her what a fine writer her husband was—and vie with one another to get close enough for a quick bit of knee-rubbing,. Betsy, for all her youth, was adept at such maneuvers and sidestepped the men neatly, all the while not in any way harming Clay’s stock with the company. Clay was proud of her. Not only because she was the best-looking woman present, but because he could feel her love across the room and the people and the words. They were separated only by space—not mentally. It made him feel oddly warm inside—and a little guilty. Altogether there were some twenty-five people present. One by one or in groups they all approached Clay to ask his considered opinion on the matters in the Middle East —if war were imminent, if the Arabs and Jews would ever get together. And then before he could answer they were telling him what they thought. At last he got the hang of it and would merely utter a few perfunctory words and wait for someone else to catch the ball and throw it back. That way he was able to appear wise and profound and still do his own thinking,16 CHEATING WIVES He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the fireplace. A slender, wiry man, a little over average height, with a face too thin, burned to a rich mahogany color by the sun, the same sun which had bleached much of his cropped hair blond, Blue eyes, slightly aquiline nose, thin, wide mouth. Below was a flat, hard-muscled torso, with the good shoulders of an ex-military man. Not a handsome man, but one with a pleasant enough appearance not to scare off any woman who might take an interest. Right now he looked like a tired man. The past three days had been hectic, starting with the flight from Istanbul to Cairo, from there to Rome and thence to Paris and then the final long leg to International Airport in New ‘York. He had never been able to sleep on planes and envied Betsy's ability to curl up like a kitten and doze at & moment’s notice, to wake up bright and fresh as a spring rain. That was why, still tense from the trip, he had been unable to sleep at the hotel and had taken the walk in the park. Bart Harder’s voice penetrated gruffly. “Might as well go in to dinner, folks. My daughter's arrived, so the clan is gathered.” He spread his arms out expansively to include everyone in the invitation. The party broke up and made its way into the dining room. There a long table laden with fine china and silver and three candelabra awaited them. Four servants stood poised, ready to move into action. In the other doorway at the end of the dining Toom was a young woman. Caught in the candlelight, her bared shoulders gleamed provocatively in the gloom. With a cer- tain majesty she moved forward to greet them, a smile lingering on her lovely face. Dark hair shone smoothly. “Ah, Leigh,” Bart Harder boomed. “My daughter, ladies and gentlemen.” He met the girl halfway and led her by the hand to the knot of guests. Clay Gordon closed his eyes briefly and then opened them. It was no apparition. The girl was real. Now sheCHEATING WIVES 17 didn’t wear tweeds or a turtleneck sweater or slap at a tree with a leather thong. Now she was as ravishing a creature as he had ever seen. This was the girl in the park. And he realized what had happened, why he had been bothered ever since their chance meeting. He had fallen in love—with the Old Man's daughter. 2 THE DINNER was the most sumptuous repast either Clay or his wife had experienced in months. The cook had whipped up a series of memorable masterpieces. The seating arrangement had Betsy at Bart’s right hand and Clay at Joyce’s. On Clay’s left was Leigh Harder. Now and then he caught Betsy glancing at him in that secret way that told him she was thinking about what they had been doing less than two hours before. Clay would grin back and shift restlessly in his chair. But his mind was not so much on the food or on his wife as it was on the girl next to him. Mrs. Harder was doing her best to compete with her daughter, as far as allowing her full breasts to rest solidly on the tabletop. She told Clay what a wonderful job he had been doing and how much she admired his work and wouldn’t he like to come over for cocktails one afternoon soon—providing, of course, that her old ogre of a hus- band would let him? This last was offered with a roguish roll of the eyes that fooled no one. Meanwhile Leigh Harder murmured polite comments on the food and the weather and seemed terribly absorbed in the conversation coming her way from the senator. Dizzily, Clay attended to his eating. Neither he nor Leigh had betrayed any sign of recognition, as if their meeting had been clandestine in a dingy hotel room. When he had seen the dogs and guessed that their owner was18 CHEATING WIVES somewhere in the vicinity, he had sworn to himself that he would bring it out in the open so everyone could have a big laugh over it. But he had been incapable of it. At times he felt that it was up to Leigh. Then he realized that he was the married one, not she, and he had to set the pace. He set it, all right—by not saying a word. And thereby kept the encounter in the park a hidden thing. For now he could not mention it even casually to Betsy because she would certainly wonder why in hell he had kept so quiet about it. Well, why had he? He knew why. As he cut a piece of roast beef he knew that he had never been hit so hard on first sight as he had that afternoon. He was stili reeling from the impact—and to have the girl herself appear next to him that very night was staggering. Occasionally their elbows touched and he nearly jumped with the contact. When he lowered his eyes to his plate he was able to shift them to better examine Leigh. Like her mother, she wore a décolleté gown, but she had the shoulders and back for it. She also had the breasts for it. They rose almost daringly from the depths, with a faint wisp of a silken bit visible. They were so clean and pure and white that not even the recollection of his wife’s superlative body in the bath could negate them. Her arms were bare and the faint airy hairs on them were sun- whitened. Long slender fingers and small but strong wrists added to the picture. When he dared to meet her gaze, he detected the flicker of amusement he had seen earlier. Her left eyebrow went up just a millionth of an inch. At last he could bear it no longer. In a low voice he said, “Would I be gauche if I made the obvious comment?” “Not at all. The world is small. People are always running into people.”CHEATING WIVES 19 “Did you know who I was this afternoon?” he asked. “No. Daddy never tells me about his guests of honor. Are you sorry?” “Yes and no. I never thought I would see you again. And I had mixed emotions.” “Your wife is very attractive.” Clay looked up at Betsy, who wrinkled her nose at him as she daintily speared some meat and ate it. “Yes,” he said. “She is.” : “Are you happy with her?” “Very. May I talk to you later?” “Why not?” Leigh shrugged, smiling for the rest. “I always have to endure these affairs till the last gun is fired. Filial devotion.” “Don’t you want to? What's to prevent you from going off—with the dogs, for instance?” “A lot of things. You see, I am not exactly Bartley's daughter. I’m his daughter-in-law.” A steel heel jammed itself into Clay’s stomach. “Oh. I see.” ae “No, you don’t see. Perhaps ll tell you about it—if you want to hear.” “Yes. I want to hear. You're the most bewitching woman I’ve ever seen.” “More potatoes, Mr. Gordon?” Leigh smirked. Far below, the lights of the city made a miniature toy- land with strings of tiny pearls. The night air was chill. Clay, accustomed to the desert heat, shivered. Leigh smiled at him. Despite the fact that her shoulders were bare, she betrayed no signs of being cold. The lights behind her glowed on her tawny flesh, sending a teasing shaft of darkness into her bodice. Clay looked away. “You're shivering, Mr. Gordon,” Leigh commented. “From the cold?” “Among other things, yes.” Glancing over his shoulder, he could see the others inside. Betsy in the middle of a20 CHEATING WIVES group of men in the library—the flame and the moths. Her pert features were animated, her eyes sparkling, and she Jaughed easily and often. This was what she needed, all tight—people and conversation and jokes. Her fears of the afternoon were obviously groundless. Once she got used to the idea of being back in civilization she would be less skittish. But would he? Clay’s jaw muscles ached with strain as he fought to keep his self-control. Leigh’s nearness was like a series of electric charges coursing through his body. Yet not three hours earlier he had been enmeshed in the deliciously familiar embrace of his wife—and now should be still full of the satiation she had given him. It was as if he could feel the rhythmic pulsating of her young form against his chest. Did that mean then that the enormous attraction. he felt for the girl at his side was dispassionate? That the rap- port was primarily mental? How then could he explain the inordinate interest he had in her exposed flesh? “Should we go inside?” Leigh asked suddenly. “T beg your pardon?” White teeth caught the light. “You seem to have strayed away. I thought you might be bored.” “No! I'm known to lapse into silences for no visible reason. The Oriental influence, I guess.” He grinned reas- suringly. “As a matter of fact, I find myself wanting to talk to you, to tell you everything that has ever happened to me. Then I feel that it is totally unnecessary—I think you already know me.” He shrugged. “Does that make sense?” “No. But I don’t want you to make sense, Clay. If it will make you feel any better, the same goes for me. As if I have no secrets from you. And one more thing—” “Yes?” “Right now—this very instant—there is nothing I want more than to have you take me into your arms and kiss me. Kiss me very hard and very viciously.”CHEATING WIVES 21 Leigh was facing the parapet, her profile etched creamily in the darkness, eyes closed, spine stiff. In sil- houette, ber breasts rose and fell roundly. Pressed to the concrete railing, her abdomen was indented smoothly under the sheath of her gown. From the bottom a high- heeled foot appeared. The sight of it pecking out was to Clay an excitingly intimate thing. Even the exposure of Betsy's entire body rarely held such ecstatic promise for him. He realized his nails were digging into his palms. “Let me tell you about the political situation in Terehan,” he mumbled with difficulty. “No. Don’t move. Don't go. Stay there. People are watching.” Her lips were parted and she was breathing like a runner after an arduous race. Her hands were flat on the parapet. “This is fantastic,” Clay said. “Things like this don’t happen. We're two grown people who've logged a lot of miles. There is no such thing as love at first sight. Isn’t that true?” “Yes,” she replied softly. “That’s true.” “Close your eyes,” he commanded. “Pretend I have taken you in my arms and that I am kissing you and touching your hair and that there is no one else here and that we are alone. Can you pretend that?” “No,” she said. “I can’t pretend that.” He forced himself to smile for the benefit of the people in the library—just as he forced himself not to touch her. In the library, Betsy Gordon looked past the ruddy bulbous features of the senator and through the French doors to the terrace. Clay was there, trim and neat in his dinner clothes, his head inclined as if to hear what the girl was saying. Obviously he was having a boring time of it, talking to the dead-pan daughter-in-law of Bartley Harder. Poor Clay. Always earning his salary, one way or another. Well, she would try to make it easier this time by being cordial to the others.22 CHEATING WIVES She had not worn a floor-length gown as Leigh and Mrs. Harder had—simply because she did not have one. But as she sat trying to be attentive to the conversation boiling around her, she felt quite secure in the black dress with the square-cut bodice and the pinched waist and flared skirt. Clay had picked it up for her on impulse dur- ing a trip to Rome and she liked it for its youthful sexi- ness. Not flashy, it nevertheless flattered her lines, allow- ing her young bosom to be seen without undue immodesty. And it was not so long that it covered her legs, which were—she knew without conceit—not bad. They were crossed now and she would have had to be blind not to be aware of the glances of the men. After a year in lands where the men stared either in slobbering lust or with malicious envy, it was pleasant to be studied by men who seemed to have innate respect for women. But not so much respect that they rendered the woman sexless. Not at all. It was in the air in this lush apartment. The women consciously showed off, the men weighed them with experienced eyes. . Oh, the men were all right—terribly interesting and witty and even attractive, in their middle-aged way. How- ever, not one could hold a candle to Clay. Just remem- bering the joy of the early evening when she had teased him into bed was sufficient to make Betsy shiver inwardly. Very slightly she flexed her thigh muscles, as if to re-feel his presence there. Under the confines of her bra her breasts were firming and she could feel a hot flush creep into her face. How awful she must be—-sitting here with all these people and thinking about making love! The twinge of guilt passed in an instant, though. What was sinful about such thoughts? Weren't husbands and wives supposed to dweil on each other occasionally? She was sorely tempted to glance at her wrist watch. The rest- Jessness in her was increasing and she wondered how long it would be before she and Clay were alone again.CHEATING WIVES 23 “Penny for your thoughts, my dear,” Bartley Harder said gruffly at her shoulder. Betsy blushed. “Oh—oh,” she stammered, “I was just thinking how wonderful it is to be back in the States again. It was such fun to see how the rest of the world lives, but this is home.” The senator, overhearing, leaned over to comment. “Speaking candidly, Mrs. Gordon, I would say that Amer- ica is, right now, going through an era that other nations will go through fifty years from now.” The senator’s voice was melodious and resonant and he used it much as a lovely woman might use her face or a strong man his muscles. He watched her, evidently study- ing the reaction it had on her. Betsy smiled her appreciation of his attention. A sena- tor, no less. Yet she detected that dog-in-heat air about him also. A senator, indeed. For a time the conversation centered on the various opinions of the state of the world, future wars, foreign aid and the behavior of Americans in Europe. Betsy found that it was heavy going. She had only recently left that atmosphere and-would have liked to have talked about the new plays or books or just plain gossip. . Therefore she was relieved when she saw Joyce Harder approach. “You men,” Joyce announced a litde drunkenly, “have monopolized Mrs. Gordon—Betsy—long enough. It’s time she had a little female chatter. Come along, dear, and we'll let these gorillas settle the earth’s problems on their own time.” She took one of Betsy's hands and tugged her away. Several other wives and girl friends clucked approvingly, as though eager to get at the newcomer. But Joyce had her own plans. “The young Mrs. Gordon and I are going to chat prit vately for a minute or two, if you girls don’t mind. We'll24 CHEATING WIVES be right back-—-but I have a suspicion that I can do her a good turn.” Without Waiting for argument she led Betsy out of the library and through the carpeted hallway and pushed open a door. It was a bedroom, a pink and glass and frilly room with a huge square bed and three full-length mirrors. Betsy blinked. It had been a long time since she had seen any- thing quite so feminine and dainty. Iran had nothing to match this. Joyce stopped in the middle of the room and faced her with a thoughtful expression on her handsome features. With hands on her shoulders she turned Betsy first one way and then the other, running her eyes over her. “Hmmm. I thought so.” “Thought so, what?” Betsy asked. “That you were just about my size. Except for here, of course.” Mrs. Harder placed a hand on her bosom. “But that may come in time,” she added with a smile. ‘No. What I had in mind, Betsy, was that you are probably traveling very light and don’t have nearly enough clothes. Well, it so happens I have closets just full. And drawers. And trunks. Tons of stuff that I never wear. Now, you won't be offended if I ask you to take some of them off my hands, will you?” Betsy was so stunned she could not reply. To have Mr. Harder’s wife take a personal interest in her was dum- founding enough, but to be offered some of her own things was almost too much. “But Mrs. Harder, I just couldn’t, Surely—” “Nonsense, dear. This isn’t charity or anything else. Look.” She went to a mahogany bureau, yanked open a drawer and hurled a handful of lingerie on the bed. Bras, girdles, panties, petticoats, and slips made a slippery tan- gle on the cover. There were a few sheer black nylons as well. Betsy stared. “See? And here.” Joyce pushed aside a sliding door toCHEATING WIVES 25 reveal a closet that took up half a wall. There, hung in neat rows, were a score of dresses, gowns, frocks and suits. “I couldn’t wear all these in a year. Honestly. It would be a very great favor to me if you would take some. Please, Betsy.” This last was accompanied by an enchanting smile. Betsy smiled back. It was true that there was not much difference in their sizes, and where there was the things could be altered. Standing straddle-legged, Joyce Harder presented a trim, slim picture of the well-dressed New York society woman. Betsy, having met such creatures only via movie screens and TV sets, was impressed. Good legs were set off beautifully by expensive toe-less high heels, the dark hair perfectly coiffed, make-up put on without a flaw. Joyce Harder certainly didn’t look ber age. And her hips didn’t give it away, either. They were a compact package no larger than Betsy’s own. “Well—” “Graod. That's what I thought,” Joyce enthused. “Want to try something on now? Sure, come on. The party’ll get along without us for a while.” She plucked a high-fashion strapless from a hanger and slung it over one arm. “Right now?” Betsy inquired hesitantly. To undress in front of an almost total stranger was somehow indecent. Yet Joyce was not about to leave the room, and to ask her to would be insulting. Betsy had little choice. “Might as well.” The older woman’s voice was strangely hoarse and Betsy wondered if she had had too much to drink. She stooped, crossed her arms, and drew her dress up over her head, then put it on the bed and reached for the strapless. “Hmmm.” Joyce looked at her. “I doubt if this bit will go on over a petticoat and bra.” “No, of course not.” Feeling oddly embarrassed, Betsy reached back and released her bra strap. Then she slipped out of the petticoat. She was wearing the white panties Clay had given to her in the hotel so long ago. They had26 CHEATING WIVES satin garter straps that held her stockings in place. Sur- rounded as she was by all this pink and glass, Betsy felt those pants fit right in, making her feel as though she were a model in some Dior dressing room. Then she noticed a curious thing. Joyce Harder was watching her with a disturbing intensity. The gown was forgotten over her arm. The direction of her gaze was not on Betsy’s face—but on her breasts! And lower. Yet it was not a gaze calculated to guess her measurements or judge the fit of her lingerie or hosiery. It was a strangely hungry, strangely masculine look. The men in the other room, for instance, had looked at her similarly. But one expects men to stare like that. She didn’t know what to do, for Joyce made no move to hand her the beautiful black strapless. A somnambulis- tic expression had fixed itself on the woman's face and she appeared to be in a trance. But why? Surely a woman her age had seen naked girls before. Betsy broke the spell by taking the gown from Joyce’s am. The older woman smiled oddly. “You do have a lovely body, my dear,” she said almost in a whiaper. “So young and fresh and firm. You should be proud of it.” “T'll get by with a good push,” Betsy said lightly, mask- ing her apprehension. She was anxious to get clothed now, to escape Joyce’s’ penetrating eyes. She stepped into the gown, one foot at a time, and struggled to pull it up. Then Joyce was there, behind her, offering her hands to the zipper that went vertically up the spine. Her palms slid swiftly over Betsy’s back and around until they were nearly cupping her breasts. Betsy spun away with a laugh. “I can do the rest,” sho said, Joyce watched as Betsy adjusted the bodice, fitting her breasts into the boned receptacles. As Joyce had told her, the top was too roomy and the gown slipped down danger- ously. The woman came around and inserted deft fingersCHEATING WIVES 27 into then top, pulling upward. “Hmmm. I was afraid of that. But a couple of tucks in the right places will fix it in no time.” Her slim hands paused against the tender flesh. Fear danced through Betsy. Something was really out of kilter here. No chance acquaintance had ever behaved so intimately with her before—and she didn’t like it. But in another way it was oddly exciting. Sparks seemed to spurt from Joyce’s hands, warming her breasts. And the woman appeared to be having a difficult time controlling her hands—and her eyes. Determinedly Betsy walked to a mirror and pretended to look at herself. Actually, she was a little dizzy and full of panic to get out of this room that had suddenly become a prison, with Joyce Harder as the guard. Then she saw that there was a draped door which had not been opened. “Oh. Where does that lead?” “Just to the terrace,” Joyce said in a dead voice. “How nice. I'd like to see it.” She didn’t wait for per- mission but walked quickly and pulled the door open. The night air flooded in and licked coldly at her fiesh. It seemed to wash away the burning touch of Joyce’s fingers and Betsy stepped out into the darkness like a diver plung- ing into a pool. Joyce did not follow her but remained behind, not moving. The chilliness cleared Betsy’s head and she went to the rail. The city lay far below and she could hear the motors and the horns. To the right, far off, rose the red-lighted tower of the Empire State Building. It looked very small in the darkness. To the left was—to the left was— The terrace stretched to the left along the rim of the Harder duplex, long and dark, with potted palms and a few chairs and tables. And two people. She could see them outlined in shadow halfway down, just out of the light from the library. Two people. One of them moved and in the resultant light she saw it was a man—wearing dinner clothes. The other a woman—with tawny flesh that shone warmly even in the dimness.28 CHEATING WIVES Suddenly they were not two people any longer—they were one. The shadows merged into‘a solid mass. Betsy stopped breathing. It was eerie to see her hus- band kissing another woman. Jt was as though she were watching herself being kissed—yet it was not her, it was someone else. It was Leigh Harder. For a long time the shadow remained immobile. Then it parted halfway and the girl was looking up at Clay's face, not speaking. Feeling as if she had chanced on a terribly private and sacrosanct scene in the house of a friend, Betsy backed toward the door to Joyce’s room. A moment later she was inside, closing out the terrace behind her. Joyce was at the dressing table, putting on lipstick. “Quite chilly out there, isn’t it?” she remarked, just as though she had not put on her remarkable performance earlier. “Yes,” Betsy said in a voice she did not recognize. “It is quite chilly.” 3 THE RIDE home in the cab was conducted in strained silence. Husband and wife sat in far corners of the back seat as though a steel wall had dropped between them. Half a dozen times Clay began to speak, but sensing a certain tautness in Betsy he held back. And he had the impression that she was going through the identical struggle. Her gloved hands were crossed in her lap and she stared fixedly at the back of the driver's neck. It was not a very attractive neck and he suspected that she thought so also, but was purposefully studying it in order to avoid talking to him. He knew it was his place to break the ice but could not bring himself to it. Leigh’s kiss was still warm on his lips; he was afraid if he spoke it would disappear and he didCHEATING WIVES 29 not want it to go away. He wanted it to remain, burn- ingly, memorably, just as he wanted his clothes to retain the faint scent of her perfume. - Only after the taxi halted in front of their hotel and he paid the cabbie did words finally break through. “Nice party,” he said a little hoarsely. “Yes. Grand,” Betsy replied distantly. “Have a good time?” “Delightful. I’m speechless, And you?” “Same old thing. Glad it’s over. Can’t wait until I get out of this monkey suit.” They went into the lobby. Clay picked up the key and then they entered the elevator, operated by a sleepy grey- haired man in a rumpled uniform. They did not talk all the way up as Betsy gazed steadily at the back of the Operator’s hairy neck. Clay held the door open to allow her to go into the room. “Well, I was afraid of this,” be said, once inside, “Afraid of what?” his wife said. A tightness was in her voice. “Of the Old Man and his whims. He’s got me sched- uled for a speech tomorrow at the Journalists Club,” Clay took off his jacket and flung it onto a chair. “I might have guessed it. He always has his boys make Personal appearances when they get back from the wars so that the Bartley correspondents can make sage predic- tions for the other wire services to use, It’s a pain in the neck.” Now that the curtain had lifted he found he could talk easily and wanted to go on. The strain seemed to have faded and Betsy was relaxing. Better to chat about this than to rehash the party. “Lord knows what I'll talk about. They’ve all heard it before and unless I can give them some gossip or prophesy war in six months they'll laugh me right off the rostrum.” He pulled his bow tie apart and dropped it on the bed. “Say, is anything wrong?”30 CHEATING WIVES Betsy had gone to the window without shedding her wrap and was looking out at the night. “Why, no,” she answered, too quickly. “I thought perhaps something had gone wrong with you. That maybe I had said something.” “No, it wasn’t that at all. I was so disturbed by Har- der’s bombshell I didn’t want to upset you, too.” Amazing how easy it was to lie, he thought. “Is that all?” Deep within him there stirred an idea that her question was loaded, as though she were inviting him to tell more, to tell exactly what had been eating him. But how could she possibly know about Leigh Harder? As far as she was concerned he had spent an hour talking with the boss's daughter-in-law about trivia. Did he dare take the chance and tell her? But then he had not told her about the meeting in the park, either. One would lead to another and conceivably start a chain reaction which she would inevitably decipher as an attempt on his part to shield a relationship with Leigh that didn’t exist. Or did it? “That's all. Besides, parties bore me. You know that.” It was out. The opening she had given him was lost. From now on he was alone. “I thought Leigh Harder rather attractive,” Betsy mur- mured, “Yes, I suppose she is. But she is hardly as attractive as Mrs. Gordon.” He grinned with stiff lips and started to go to her. Before he could reach her she had whirled from the window and walked to the bathroom. Clay froze in his tracks. It was a deliberate affront, one which ordinarily he would have called her on, but now he could not. The close, intimate tie he had with his wife was broken —for the very first time since their marriage—and he had no idea how to repair it. The sound of running water jarred him back to reality. It was his own doing, of course, Betsy knew him so wellCHEATING WIVES 31 that she could detect the slightest deviation from the norm—that would explain her aloofness. She had waited for him to spill it out and when it was not forthcoming she had turned her back. What seemed like an hour later she emerged, already unzipping her dress. Clay made no move to assist her. She let the gown fall away and he looked at the round smoothness of her body in the white lingerie. It might have been a statue. Unseeingly, she unhooked her bra and slipped off the petticoat and panties. She could have been no more nonchalant if she were entirely alone. The breasts and hips and legs that had so aroused him that afternoon were now mere pieces of flesh and bone, noth- ing more, He had no pounding desire to take that form into his arms and crush it to him, Instead he went into the bathroom. When he came out Betsy was in bed, curled up on the far side, ber back to him, the color of her pajamas touching her shining hair. “You aren’t ill, are you, darling?” “Not at all,” came the muffled answer. “Just exhausted. Tl be all right in the morning.” As he got out of his clothes he thought, now I should tell her. I should tell her about the funny coincidence of meeting Leigh in the park and then again at the party and how they had talked and how they had kissed and that it was all ridiculous and wasn’t it absurd that he should feel guilty about it? He got into bed. For a time he looked across the great expanse between them—as wide as the Grand Canyon. An iron band seemed to squeeze his chest, preventing the love for his wife that resided in his heart from rising up and coming out. It was like being in bed with an utter stranger—a sexless stranger. The arc of one slim hip rose into the light blanket and he longed to caress it as he had so many times before, sensing that if he did, if he made that single gesture that32 CHEATING WIVES wall between them would crumble and she would roll into his embrace. But his arms were not aching for her —they wanted to hold another. And she knew him well enough to know the gesture would be false. The light was out and he lay back on the pillow, head cupped in his laced fingers. Next to him he could hear Betsy’s gentle breathing, regular and even—too regular and even. She was not asleep. The tension was there— as real as a sword, Betsy did not move or change position as she usually did. She stayed on the far side as though afraid of contamination by his touch. Clay tried to imagine that she was facing him, without Pajamas, her young breasts rising to meet his kiss, her body arching toward him. But nothing came through. He might as well have been alone. Yet he was not. He was desperately aware of her presence and nearness. Just as he was aware of Leigh’s. For Leigh was there between them and he remem- bered nearly every word she had uttered earlier. Each inflection, the way the moon had caught in her hair and glistened on her lips and then the indelible touch of those lips on his. Within him was the coiled snake of guilt. Gradually, however, a mounting anger replaced the guilt. What right did Betsy have getting into a huff? He had done nothing or said nothing that gave her leave to freeze up. Why should she lie next to him stiff as a board over some imagined slight or ingult? If there were any- thing really wrong then she should come out with it rather than letting him rack his brain trying to fathom it all. Ob, sure, there were times when a woman was touchy and hypersensitive and irritable—that was her prerogative. But to have it happen midway between the cycles was nonsense. Suddenly he swung over, seized his wife’s shoulder and yanked her around. Betsy made no sound as she rolled limply toward him. One of his bands slipped into the top of her pajamas. No warmth exuded from herCHEATING WIVES 33 flesh—it was like marble. Grabbing a handful of hair he pulled her head back and found her mouth with his. Her lips were like ice. Really enraged now he crushed her fiercely to him, grinding her teeth with his own. His fingers dug into the tenderness of her skin. Betsy made no resistance and he knew if he so de- sired he could have proceeded to the inevitable end— without kindling the tiniest spark in her body for him. She would lie defenseless, as if her body belonged to someone else, and he would be able to do with it as he pleased. It would be a victory, but it would not be a triumph. How can you triumph over a foe who will not fight? . As suddenly as it had come, the rage melted away, leaving an emptiness in his heart. He released his grip on Betsy and shifted his bulk back to the other side. She remained where she was for a few minutes. Then very slowly she rolled over and once more turned her curved spine to him. A moment later she was breathing with quiet inhalations . . . and she was gone again. Once during the night Clay got up to smoke a ciga- rette and pace the room. It was an effort not to go into the lobby and telephone Leigh. It was equally an effort not to wake Betsy up—she was genuinely asleep then— and pour out the story to her, At last, mentally exhausted, he went back to bed and fell in a dreamless stupor. ‘When Betsy awakened, Clay was splashing noisily in the tub and she lay for a moment listening to the familiar sounds. The big oaf always made such a racket when he bathed, something like a hippo. Except that he in no way resembled a hippo. How anyone. as lean and sinewy as Clay could make so many different noises was beyond her. She was about to call out a remark when she checked herself. Ah, yes. She was not speaking to him. In a rush the34 CHEATING WIVES tension of the night was back. It occurred to her that all that was needed was a word from her and it might be ended. Just like that. In his own bumbling way Clay had tried to recall her last night—but she had refused him. Well, why not? It was entirely up to him to remove her doubts about Leigh Harder. Was he so blind as to not know why she was cutting him off? Betsy sat up hugging her shoulders for a chill seemed to have come into the room from nowhere. Goosebumps rose on her flesh. Cross-legged, she sat and shivered. The top button of her pajamas had come undone and one breast struggled to escape. She tucked it back in absently and rebuttoned the garment. That was a task Clay liked to do. So this was jealousy, The first true pangs of it she had known in the year since the wedding. Once in a while she had felt needles of it, whenever Clay had to inter- view a particularly attractive woman or if a pretty girl tried to corner him at a gathering. But be always had laughed them off and had forgotten them within the hour. At such times Betsy felt endowed with great strength and power and thought herself very fortunate to be loved by such a man. But she had had no conception of what jealousy really was until the terrace scene last night when she saw Clay voluntarily kiss another woman. She was certain it was voluntary. Otherwise he would have mentioned it after- ward. And also he would not have been so distant and preoccupied. That business of the speech was pure baloney. He had given plenty of speeches before—good ones. This one would be no more difficult than the others. It was not so much that he had kissed Leigh Harder. Goodness, what was a kiss? But the terrible part of it was that he had been sneaky about it. He should have told her last night that he -was attracted to Leigh Harder. Betsy would have been more than understanding about it. She might even have suggested that he go off andCHEATING WIVES 35 have lunch with Leigh and get the whole business out of his system. As it was, she felt betrayed and deceived. Therefore, logically, it was not up to her to do the forgiving or the icebreaking. It was his place, She would wait and be very sweet and very calm and very tolerant and even pretend nothing at all was wrong. Oh, she would be sophisticated about it. This sort of thing was supposed to happen all the time in the better circles. What was a little infidelity or adultery among friends? When a warm drop fell on the back of her hand she realized she was crying. With misty eyes she went about the process of getting dressed. So many times she had managed it with no trouble at all. This morning nothing went right. When she took off her pajama top the cord that secured the trousers came loose and the floppy things dropped down over her feet, imprisoning them. Naked as a baby she stood there, looking at her image in the mirror. Her hair was limp and her shoulders sagged and tears streamed down her face, As she tried to take a step the pajamas tripped her up and she lurched against the bed. For a few seconds she remained there, arms and legs awry, incapable of regaining her balance, her body slip- ping off the smooth sheets, Then, knowing that Clay would be through any moment and not wanting him to find her like this, she staggered to her feet without the wretched pajamas and looked for her things. Piece by filmy piece she found them. Somehow she got her arms through the straps of her brassiere and fitted it to her breasts. Then she realized it was on inside-out and had to do it ail over again. Eventually she found her panties and pulled them on, leg by naked leg. She was just putting on her robe when the bathroom door opened and Clay, in clean T-shirt and shorts, emerged. His blond hair stuck damply to his36 CHEATING WIVES head, and all at once Betsy wanted to run to him and cry into his chest, Had he so much as smiled at her she might have. . “Good morning, darling,” Clay said flatly and walked over to the bureau. He opened a drawer and looked for a shirt, Never did his back look so broad or forbidding. She went into the bathroom. When she came out Clay was completely dressed with his I’m-going-out look on his face. Somewhat refreshed from the water and a brushing of her hair, Betsy never- theless felt shattered. Coming back into the room with Clay was like walking into an armed camp surrounded by enemies. How could such bliss as they had shared yesterday change so swiftly into this—this living death? They were like two people who spoke different languages and could not be understood by one another. “Got to go down to the office,” Clay said shortly. “Turn in the report and haggle with the Old Man about a raise.” “All right,” Betsy answered. “Maybe I'll wander around town and do some shopping.” “Got enough money?” “I think so. I won’t buy very much anyway.” Des- perately she added, “Shall I meet you for lunch?” Clay glanced at his watch. “Gee, I don’t know, Betsy. Usually Harder has tricks up his sleeve. Might be plan- ning something with the editors at the office, for all [ know. I'll call you.” “But I won't be here,” she reminded him. He snapped his fingers. “That's right. Well, let’s not take any chances. Suppose you give me a call about— about three. We'll see then.” For her this conversation was like trying to hold water in her hands. ‘All right. Whatever you say.” Something died inside of her at his cold exterior. She ached, posi-CHEATING WIVES 37 tively ached, to have his arms come around her and feel his face next to hers. At the door he paused. “Feeling okay, Betsy?” “Yes. I feel fine. Just fine, Oh.” “Yes?” Clay was as friendly as a prison door. “The speech tonight. Uh. Have you finished it?” “Just about. Pll make it up as I go along.” She didn’t want to have him go. As long as he was there, there was hope that this whole stupid thing could be resolved. Why didn’t he say something instead of just talking? “Is it a banquet?” she asked weakly. “I guess so. Creamed chicken and peas,” he said with a wry smile. “Sounds delicious.” “It'll be a mess,” Clay said, still half out the doorway. “Drunks, dirty jokes—you know, same old stuff.” “Yes, it will be terrible. Maybe I'l curl up with a good book or something.” “Might be a good idea,” Clay said quickly. “I'll get out early.” Again the watch. “Well, I'd better run. Call me?” “Yes, Pll call you.” The door closed, the catch clicked and he was gone. Betsy stared at the panel for a long time, not believing that he had actually left without explaining, without even trying to break the log-jam of emotions. Was this how marriages ended? The dining room of the Journalists Club was not the largest in New York but it was roomy enough to hold the two hundred members and wives who crowded in to hear a speaker, see a newsreel, watch a couple of comedians and to dance afterward. Not a spectacular platform, but a newsworthy one, for each of the members was an out- standing reporter or columnist and would dutifully pass on whatever words of wisdom the speaker dropped.38 CHEATING WIVES The diners’ tables were placed in the shape of a lower- case letter “‘m” with the head table forming the cross- bar. Chairs were jammed in closely and before long the smoke and confusion effectively prevented any long-range identification. It was a gay, talkative throng present, for whenever the Harder men were featured, things hap- pened that made good reading on the wires. Further, word was around the grapevine that Clay Gordon’s dis- patches from the Middle East had the sound of Pulitzer Prize in them. During the day Betsy had called Clay at the office and he told her that lunch together was impossible. This was not altogether true but to him her voice over the phone was just as imperturbable as her back had been the night before and what with the conference and Harder’s relent- less questioning about news sources he did not feel in the mood for a strained meal. Less than an hour after lunch she called again and the way she slurred her words told him she had had too many martinis. Angered, he had cut her short, saying he was busy. Almost at once he felt he had wronged her—Betsy nevér drank alone and to do so now must mean she was desperately unhappy. Begging off from further discus- sions he took a cab back to the hotel and raced up to the room. She was not there, but a note was. Clay. Am off to a movie for the afternoon. Will be back by 7. Don’t worry about taking me to the banquet. I'll eat here. B. Clay crumpled the note and threw it at the wall. He reasoned that it was up to her to insist on being taken to the banquet and not to be coy or self-effacing about it. To hell with her. He dug out his tux and took it back to the office with him. Which was why, of all the club members at the affair,CHEATING WIVES 39 the guest of honor was one of the few who did not have his wife with him. The speech, as a result, was not one of his better ef- forts. After a lengthy and paternal build-up by Bartley Harder, who referred to him as “one of our best boys out there,” he rose to his feet, sipped from a water glass and peered into the smoky depths of the room. In his mind he was still reliving the anguish of the night before at the hotel and how Betsy had been totally unresponsive to his kisses. He forgot completely that it had been his own preoc- cupation with Leigh Harder that had precipitated the issue. That is, he forgot until he saw her looking up at him out of the haze from a nearby table. Until that moment the speech was crammed full of clichés and worn-out phrases about the state of things in the world, He spoke of his interviews with the premiers and major domos. And he also praised the work of all’ correspondents of all the papers and news services, But after spotting Leigh he loosened up, delving into his memory for really pertinent information, giving his candid opinion on the effectiveness of the Communists in Asia Minor and adding a spicy story about a deposed king and his current mistress. When he sat down the audience responded courteously enough and even stood up for a few seconds, but he didn’t kid himself about the flop the speech had made. “Not bad, boy,” Bartley Harder leaned over to whisper. “Not bad. Just lousy. I’d better stick to a typewriter.” That the boss did not pursue the subject indicated to Clay that he probably agreed. The other speaker was not much better, and the come- dians were worse. The members, then, were only too will- ing to help move the tables and chairs and clear the floor for dancing. Small knots of self-styled experts gathered and arguments were raging before the music began. A few sought Clay out to get a few well-chosen words for40 CHEATING WIVES their papers and he obliged—under the guiding eye of Bartley Harder. But now he was restless and jumpy and kept looking over the heads of the others. A mass of couples were fill- ing the dance floor to shuffle around to the desultory music of the orchestra. “Do you like dogs?” ‘The voice at his elbow. He spun around. “Leigh!” “That’s the name. Did you hear that wretched speech?” “Not me. I slept all the way through it.” Leigh was like a breath of fresh, clean air driving the foul fumes from his brain. Her dark beauty was a spot- light in the night, eyes wide and amused, her lips smooth over her teeth. The contours of her breasts made convex indentations in the simple black dress, with the neckline just low enough to reveal the brown skin there. The rest of the dress clung sheathlike to her hips and thighs, de- lineating them superbly. Clay felt a small hand squeeze his heart. She had sought him out. Then she had felt no remorse about last night. It had affected her as it had him. He fought down an impuise to embrace her on the spot. “Do you know how to dance, Mr. Gordon?” she asked softly, “Or are you too busy rearranging the history of the world?” “Yes and no in that order. Come.” She floated into his arms and it was as good as last night on the terrace. The feel of her stim suppleness against him was adrenalin in his veins. And how Leigh could dance—light and graceful, she followed him like a shadow. Now and then their steps would force them to- gether and one of his legs would be pressed for an in- stant between the slim thighs, then it would slide away. His right hand fitted perfectly to her spine, fingering the double-corded muscle there, and lower, the unmistakable sweep of her resilient hips. In its travels the hand felt no backstrap of a brassiere, a discovery strengthened byCHEATING WIVES 41 the full pressure of her warm breasts against his chest. If ever a dance presaged love, theirs did. They did not talk much. He was content to sniff the scent of crushed violets in her hair and peek at the tiny thing that was her ear. His head pulsed and his mouth was dry. “I don’t know why I came tonight,” she breathed. “I detest banquets.” “I know why. You had to come.” She inhaled. “Yes. I had to come. Isn’t it ridiculous? Well, it won't last long. You'll be going off with your wife soon and I'll get over it.” She laughed lightly. “It must have been something I ate.” “T ate it, too,” he reminded her. “My wife is not here, Leigh. Do you want me to take you home?” For an instant she clung to his encircling arm. “I’m afraid, Clay. This is a mistake. You don’t know me.” “I know you. I know you. We know each other, Leigh. Come with me. Don’t be afraid.” Her entire body seemed to become unjointed at once and he had to hold her up. Then she covered and was dancing well again. “All right,” she said huskily. “I won't be afraid. You can take me home. But don't you have to stay until they put out the empty bottles?” “No. I’ve already contributed my share to the confu- sion. They'll be glad to be rid of me.” As they made their way through the dancers their legs moved in unison and great charges of heat went up and down his thighs. His arm remained wrapped around her waist, feeling her hips move with her steps, effort- lessly, as though oiled. His hand was on fire. They found that there were too many people to allow him to speak to Bartley again or the club president so they continued to the door and through it. His dazed eyes could scarcely recognize familiar faces that smiled at him. In fact they were so dazed they failed to recognize the most familiar face of all.42 CHEATING WIVES Betsy Gordon could have touched Clay’s arm as he moved past in the throng, but she did not. She turned away, suddenly sick, and lost herself in the crowd. 4 OrpmariLy, Clay’s opinion of women drivers ran to out- right panic, but now he was forced to revise the estimate. Leigh Harder drove her low-slung convertible as capa- bly as any man—with a quiet confidence—moving so smoothly that one had no sensation of speed. She slid into the city’s traffic easily and unobstrusively. With the canvas top up and the dashlights on Clay felt as if they were in the cab of a train engine, all alone, with limitless power at their command. The first wind of passion had left and now he was calmer. The knowledge of her presence within arm’s length was like a drug to pain. Leigh was probably as surprised as Clay when they found themselves speeding through the gleaming white- ness of the Lincoln Tunnel and into the darkness of New Jersey. But it was very simple for him to slump on the leather seat, hear the music from the radio, feel the quiet roar of the motor and occasionally look across at Leigh. It was pleasant, looking. Her hair stirred lightly in a draft from the window; the lights played over the planes of her face, sending shadows dancing. She had slung her camel’s hair polo coat over her shoulders but it had slipped off and he could see the way her slim form was molded to the seat. With her feet slightly apart, the material of the dress clung to her thighs, outlining each separately and smoothly..She sat with her spine straight and yet was not stiff. It was nice, looking at Leigh. She said, “I don’t know where I'm going—do you?” “T didn’t for some time but I do now. I'll tell you when to stop. 1 must say it again—you are one of the loveliestCHEATING WIVES 43 women I've ever seen. And as you know I'm not un- traveled.” “Thank you,” said Leigh simply. Clay grinned. Here was one of the few women he knew who could take a compliment with grace. “Was Betsy angry last night?” she asked. “How did you know?” “I'm a woman—a woman can tell about such things. Besides, you had that weil-kissed look.” “Small wonder. I thought a truck had hit me.” He licked his lips and uncrossed his legs. When she breathed, her tummy pushed out slightly below the waist. Fasci- nated, he said, “What do you do with yourself?” Leigh pursed her lips. “Nothing. Everything. I paint things and write bad poetry and read good books and walk my dogs. I'm a dilettante.” “What about working in Bartley Harder’s shop?” “He'd like me to, of course, But I can’t bring myself to it. I'm just a lazy lout at heart.” “I don’t believe it. You feet vital.” “I'm not,” she replied with a trace of sadness. “Why not?” he asked, curious. “Because—oh, Clay, don’t ask me.” “All right.” The quick look she threw him meant he should not have given up so quickly, Clay shrugged. As the miles spun past under the tires, the excitement began to grow again, ballooning in his chest. Leigh was driving more purposefully now. On impulse, he leaned over and kissed her flower-soft cheek. Her hand came up and caressed his neck, That was all he needed. “How long is your husband dead?” “Two years.” “Tiness?” The answer was slow in coming. “In a way, yes.” “Good answer.” “Bad question.” Leigh’s right hand found his leg and rested lightly on44 CHEATING WIVES it. Strange sensations shot up his thigh. “Maybe I should tell you,” she said. “No one really knows and it’s possible that by being kept in, it will fester and infect all of me. But Clay’—the slim fingers tightened—“‘you don’t have to listen, What exists be- tween us should not be spoiled by my past.” “Or my present,” he added quietly. “Yes—your present. Let's go back to the city.” “Let’s not. What about the young Mr. Harder?” It took a few moments to realize what flooded him now. In addition to the physical stimulus was a sharp needle of jealousy. Jealousy for a dead man over a woman he had not known existed forty-eight hours ago. That Leigh should have been married to anyone and should have offered her body and her love to another man was infuriating. Even as he felt the anger sweep him he knew it was childish and petty, but he could not prevent it. Just being in the same car with her gave him a pro- prietary possession of her—and all her past and all her future. Odd that she could exude such dynamism without making any visible effort. He was half-inclined to tell her not to talk about it— he didn’t want to hear of intimacies she had shared with someone else. But his curiosity about what her life was like prevented him from interrupting. Leigh talked as she drove, as though reciting some speech from memory—as though the words were emerg- ing from the very depths of her being. “When I was nineteen,” she said softly, “I was as healthy and normal! and as sex-conscious as the next one. More, perhaps, since I was not unattractive and I had a good body, and men let me know it. Bruce Harder was one of them—handsome, dark, rich, a Princeton man, the son of a famous father. We had a proper courtship and our marriage made all the society columns. We were the perfect couple—as far as the outside world was con- cerned,”CHEATING WIVES 4s A laugh tinged with bitterness came from her mouth. “But Bruce had desires that he had picked up in strange places. He’d had mistresses from the time he was fifteen and they had taught him some cute tricks. Like any Joving husband, he passed them on to me, his tender wife. I went along with it for nearly a year—fetishes, peculiar games, sometimes even a few close friends.” She closed her eyes briefly as if to shut out the memory. “He never did get a job—his occupation was drinking. If you want a real thrill, Clay, try going to bed with a drunk and have him paw you like an animal and bite your breasts and anything else he can sink his teeth into and then lie there while he froths and all but kills you as he has his way with you. Try it sometime. It’s lovely.” She shuddered slightly. “Inevitably I began to rebel, not openly but silently, until I was like concrete inside. Nothing he did affected me. I might as well have been a corpse. In fact I suppose I was, to some extent. A part of me had died. It took him a long time to realize it though, and when he tried to change his ways it was too late. I was a million miles away from him. Books and art became my life. Not other men, oddly enough. I couldn't stand them, to tell the truth.” Again she paused as she guided the car through a knot of vehicles pulling onto the parkway from a drive-in theater. Clay looked across at her, unable to answer or comment, He fought down a hatred at what Bruce Harder had inflicted on her. That her being should have been subjected to such ghastly attentions, that her slim, whipcord body should have been abused, her flesh violated, was sickening. But that was not all. “There was a girl,” Leigh continued in a flat voice. “A girl who had been around. It didn’t take her long to fig- ure me out. Oh, well. All right. 1 experimented. I had to. I mean at least I didn’t fight it. I was in bed one night and she came up from downstairs, where Bruce was46 CHEATING WIVES having one of his parties. Ostensibly, it was to say good night. First thing I knew she had pulled the covers down —I was sleeping in the raw. Then she was doing some very pleasant things to me. What a change from Bruce! I came alive to some of the most exquisite sensations I had ever known. To speak frankly, I reciprocated—all the bottled-up love and emotion came out like an explo- sion. My friend knew how to get such things out, And she had the loveliest body—better than mine, 1 might add. I won’t lie—I liked it. I liked the feel of soft, scented flesh next to me and a sensuous mouth doing to my body what I wanted done. That delightful thing that is every woman's right occurred. Just about that time Bruce came in.” Only the hum of the tires on the pavement and the muffied power of the engine broke the silence. Clay wished she would stop talking. Once again he leaned over and found the corner of her mouth with a kiss that seared his lips. With her eyes on the road she gave him her full mouth. Automatically his hand slid down over the ex- posed flesh of her chest, over the firm swellings of her breasts that yielded resiliently. “Bruce went out of his head,” she went on huskily. “The girl barely got out of the room alive. Then he broke things and threw a fit. All I could do was watch him and wait and wonder how long it would be before he killed me. Then ail of a sudden he stopped and looked at me, passed his hand over his face and staggered in my direction. He collapsed in a sobbing, drunken heap on top of me, begging for forgiveness, saying he knew he had done this to me, that it was all his fault.” A small quake shook her. “It was horrible. He stayed there that night. No, he didn’t touch me. He couldn't, I guess. Next moming he went to his room and blew the top of his head off with a thirty-eight caliber pistol.” Clay stopped breathing, feeling as if a sledge hammer had struck his chest.CHEATING WIVES 47 A neon sign loomed out of the darkness, denoting a motel. “Turn in here,” he commanded. Silently, Leigh obeyed. She sat stiffly in the car while Clay got out and went into the office. A pale young man smiled weakly and pushed the register toward him. Clay filled out the form, using Mr. and Mrs, He had to look out the window to see the license plates before he could put the numbers down. At that the young man’s eyebrows went up knowingly. “Ordinarily,” he murmured, “the room is five dollars, but I'm afraid it will be ten tonight.” Clay glared at him, about to lash out sharply. It was blackmail, pure and simple. But his concern for Leigh was such that he restrained himself. He threw a ten- dollar bill at the grinning clerk, took the proffered key and stomped out to the car. He didn’t tell Leigh about it. A moment later they were in the tiny cabin, with its small double-bed, scarred furniture and midget bathroom. Like a woman in a daze, Leigh sank to the bed, her hands at her sides, her eyes glassy. Something, the spirit per- haps, had gone out of her body and left her limp and lifeless. Clay lit a cigarette. “You were right,” he said at last. “I shouldn’t have asked you about it.” A smile ghosted over her lips. “But that’s only the be- ginning, Clay. The interesting part is still to come. Ready?” “All right.” “Bruce’s suicide was a source of both relief and terror. Glad as I was to be rid of him, I suffered. It was 1, after all, who had killed him. Does that sound strange? It’s not Teally. I was and am convinced he loved me. He loved me to such desperation that in order to survive he had to sub- sist on my body, much as a vampire needs to suck human blood to live. Even if it is the blood of the loved one. So my sex fed him, my flesh, my thighs and bones. If I had been cold when he was alive, I was frozen when he48 CHEATING WIVES was dead. The very thought of relations with anyone— a man or a woman—filled me with horror. I was ab- solutely ashamed of what nature had given me. And this condition was not helped very much by the so-called friends of Bruce who were only too anxious to console his widow. Thinking me neglected, they tried everything but out-and-out rape to make me forget. They only made things worse. Not for a year did I begin to return to normalcy. Normalcy—-that’s a laugh.” As she talked, Leigh was slipping out of her dress, loosening the zipper and letting the gown fall forward to expose her superb breasts and then dropping it to the floor while she remained with only briefs and hose cover- ing nakedness, As Clay watched she detached the stock- ings from their garters and slid them off her long, firm legs. He listened to her as he undressed himself. “Is it any wonder I was considered a queer one by my friends in those days? I devoted much too much time to my dogs—traveling with them, letting them be my constant companions. I read too much and thought too much and did too little with my hands. Men, I ignored. Not because I could not respond to them—I could, good- ness knows—but because I considered myself poisonous, a jinx, a Lorelei. My father-in-law tried to interest me in some of his friends, even in himself. I shrugged them all off. I was just a living thing going through life as a blind man goes through an art gallery. Several times suicide occurred to me but I didn’t have the guts needed to pull the trigger.” She hesitated. “And that,” she whispered with 2 little sigh, “takes us up to the present. When I met you the other day I attempted to freeze you out because you ap- pealed to me, Clay.” Her head dropped. “I might have known fate is not so easily outwitted. We came together —we kissed—and now we're alone together.” A very real exhaustion was in Clay now as her voice faded and died away. He had heard other confessions be-CHEATING WIVES 49 fore but rarely one that was so complete or so self-con- demnatory, The lust that had pulsed hotly in his veins was weak and faint. Her words were more effective than a cold shower and he sat and shivered in the chair opposite the bed. He knew he had two alternatives, Either he could ab- sorb and swallow everything she had said and offer her his shoulder for crying upon and give her the comfort she so badly needed, or he could persist in being a man, taking the chance that by giving her his love and his body he could purge her self-guilt and prove her innate womanhood and femaleness. Leigh's eyes were on him, brimming with tears. All he had to do was go to her. The sight of her half-clad flesh was deliciously sweet and he longed to take the last piece of cloth from it. She sank backward until her head rested on the pillow. She regarded him with pained eyes, wait- ing for his decision. As far as strength was concerned he knew he could force the issue, that his muscles could succeed where his words might fail. That there was a resistance in her he knew clearly. But a feminine body never looked softer and more defenseless. To still his nerves he drew his hands over her breasts, letting them taste the satiny skin and the now-firmed tips, Should he pour out soothing, understanding words and tell her that it all meant nothing? Nonsense. It did mean something. Her telling all the gruesome details proved it meant a great dea! to her actions and her life. Had be been in the mood he might have laughed, for he was like a sailor who finds a mermaid, part warm woman and part cold fish. Above the waist Leigh was all there, magnificently so. The twin spires of her breasts rose out of creamy cushions and he gazed on them as if seeing female flesh for the very first time, forgetting that only twenty-four hours before he had slept with Betsy. But then that was the way it always was with sex—the50 CHEATING WIVES satiation rarely endured more than a few hours before the urge was back as strong if not stronger than ever. Sex— the only human activity that is an end and a beginning in itself. This, though, was different. Here before him was a manifestation of his secret wishes—that part of all men which forever seeks the highest beauty, the ultimate of their boyhood dreams. For him, Leigh was that ultimate. Once, when first he had laid eyes on Betsy, he thought he had achieved it, but the intervening year of familiarity had blunted if not destroyed it. In Leigh he refound it. Now the need to possess her raged in him like an in- ferno. On the very verge of hurtling himself upon her, animal-like, a ray of sanity burst through and held him back. A spark of decency emerged on the razor’s edge that separates man from beast. It would be simple now to achieve the physical relief he so frantically needed, but he knew that by pressing his will on her he could conceivably shatter what shred of hopefulness she had remaining. True, for the moment she might enjoy it and forget the horror of her past, but later the guilt would return worse than ever, crushing her as relentlessly as an avalanche. The price would be a very heavy one for her to pay. And for him. Slowly, reluctantly, Clay lifted himself from the bed. Leigh watched him, tears shining, her lower lip caught between her teeth, her fine hair a webby tangle on the pillowcase. “Clay, I’m so sorry. I'‘m—I’m no good.” “Don’t say that.” “I shouldn’t have started this. If you must .. .” This last was added with a shrug of her bare shoulders, the sacrifice of the lamb. to the wolf—of one lover to another. Angry words bubbled to Gis mouth. He bit them back and swallowed them whole. “No,” he lied, “No, I do notCHEATING WIVES 51 ‘must’.” Pacing the room like a caged lion he gradually felt the force ebb away. He opened the window and sucked in the cool air. Leigh was mute from her supine position on the bed. At last she sat up and reached for her things. “Let me,” said Clay thickly. Leigh handed him one sheer nylon stocking and held out a slim flawless leg. “You don’t have to—if it will make it any worse.” “I want to.” Over the tiny toes, the delicately boned foot, the nar- tow ankle and the taut-fleshed calf, the pretty knee and then the rich, tapered fullness of the thigh. He smoothed the wrinkles away and flattened the band, his palms sticking to the threads. Then he fixed the garter that hung down from her white panties. Almost sadly she lowered the gleaming leg and offered the other one. Lovingly he sheathed the wispy bit over the white, inviting flesh, Leigh stood up, slim and straight, and put her dress on. Clay zipped up the back with tenuous fingers. “You'd better get dressed,” she suggested quietly. When he was clothed they faced one another like strangers. The tumult in his heart had subsided, and all that remained of the once flaring flame was a glowing ash. Leigh cupped his face and kissed him with cool lips. Then, without speaking, they left the cabin and went out to the car, got in and drove off into the night. Deep within him, though, he knew this was not the end —that it was only the beginning. J BarTLey Harper, for all his famed taste for parties, ex- citement and flashy women, was the most conscientious member of his own firm. Each moming at eight, regard-32 CHEATING WIVES less of the revels of the previous night, he was at his desk—often in formal dress—answering the phone, giving crisp orders and keeping tabs on his fourteen overseas bureaus, Frequently he would appear in the ticker room to be on top of the latest developments as they were received out of the machine. Then he would rap out commands for treatment of the news to be relayed to the subscribing newspapers the world over. Usually his bursts of frenetic energy left his subordi- nates gasping for breath. At times his mania for quick, on-the-spot decisions backfired, but by that time he would have left the office and the underlings would catch it. So in the end, if they did not admire him they at least respected and feared him, Some cynics went so far as to say, “The Old Man works so damned hard because if he didn’t assume so much re- sponsibility his own board of directors would squeeze him out.” Others compared his cold ruthlessness with that of a Prussian general—and it was as effective. And as cor- dially hated. But he paid well, although that—his enemies said—was the only solid prop to his empire. At rare intervals Bart Harder would arrive at the office and stomp through it without a word to anyone and go into virtual seclusion, incommunicado, unreachable by all but his closest aides. Those times he devoted to serious cogitation of his own personal problems. Long ago he had learned that Joyce’s peculiar demands would inter- Tupt him at home. Nor did he always feel the need of one of his many female companions. Now he did have a problem, an acute one. He was considering changing horses, so to speak, in midstream. Of course, he had done it before in the past—several times—but never in so little time or with such possibly far-reaching effects. There might be trouble. He knew that the new one he had in mind was different and would Tequire careful handling.CHEATING WIVES 353 Betsy Gordon. Just saying her name to himself served to quicken his pulses. He knew he was nervous about it and not the least reason was that she was so young. During the dinner party the other night he had had all he could do to keep his hands off her. Joyce, he knew, had lured her into the bedroom, which gave him a bad few minutes, but from the disappointment on his wife’s face he realized that Betsy was still unclaimed. Too many times had Joyce managed to scare off promising prospects by adroit hand- work in the bedroom. The inter-office phone broke in rudely. “Mr. Harder, I have those papers for your signature.” “All right, Doris, bring them in.” Doris Mosely entered, efficient and sleek in her pin- striped business suit. Not as slender as a high-fashion model, she was well-dressed enough to disguise her volup- tuousness. Full-bodied but compact with high breasts and & neat waist, she had, in lovely contrast, very slim and flashy legs now encased in sheer nylons with black seams. Alas, she was no longer young. Ten years before, she had been a real morsel and he had hired her on appear- ance alone. Immediately she had showed her willingness for homework and extracurricular activities. He even went through a stage of making her his full-time mistress, but the fever passed for him—if not for her. Now over thirty- five and utterly out of touch with other suitors, she was blindly, hopefully and doggedly devoted to him, content to accept his favors whenever he chose to bestow them. She looked good today, he had to admit it. The skirt was becomingly tight, outlining her legs and hips—those pieces of anatomy that had afforded him so much pleas- ure. Ample as they were, those hips could move when properly incited. But she was no longer young. Bart Harder shrugged, smiled at his secretary, ignored her entreating glance, and reached for the papers.34 CHEATING WIVES “Busy tonight, Bart?” Doris queried suddenly. ‘’Thought I might do one of those good soufflés you used to like so much. Haven’t seen you in a long time now.” “Sorry, Doris,” replied Harder ‘gruffly. “Too many things going on tonight. The wife has some people coming over. You know how it is. But give me a raincheck.” Rotten trick, but what else could he do? She bored him stiff with her adulation. And lately it was getting kind of pathetic. Probably half-a-dozen guys in the office would jump at the chance to make time with her—if they were from him. “Well, another time then.” sure the Old Man still didn’t have a claim there. “I was afraid so,” Doris murmured, taking the papers “By all means,” he said, giving that good-bye smile. He breathed deeply when she disappeared through the door, a sexy figure but no longer an appealing one to him. ‘ Now if she were Betsy Gordon... From the few moments he had had to study Clay Gor- don’s wife he found her a delightful combination of maturity and innocence—contained in a most gorgeous body. The very thought of it made him wish himself twenty years younger so that he could really get in and swing. She would be worth fighting for—she was worth fighting for—but there was the inconvenience of Clay Gordon. Husbands weren't usually very great obstacles “but he suspected Clay and Betsy were very close. What was needed, then, was some way to break them up, to make Gordon lose face and hence, her love. Then to be on hand to catch her on the first bounce. A thought flashed through his mind that he might try and steer Leigh in Clay’s direction, but he quickly snuffed it out. Leigh was such a cold turkey, about as sexy as a snow shovel. He knew. He had tried his best to get her into bed himself. No, Leigh was out. But dammit, there had to be some way to get Betsy Gordon. There was a woman he had to have!CHEATING WIVES 55 Now that Doris had broken the ice and gotten the busi- ness day started, Bart’s other assistants began to intrude. Before long his office was full of men, coming and going, holding impromptu conferences and discussing the doings of the day throughout the world. One of the member newspapers in Cleveland was considering dropping the Service and picking up another. It was up to Harder to select a troubleshooter to get out there and persuade the publisher to stay in. The competition had gotten a couple of scoops on a train wreck in Scotland and an attempted assassination of the Egyptian premier. Why? Harder had to chew out two of his editors to get them on the ball. The vice-president in charge of public relations was at his elbow suggesting a theme for the next day’s editorial to be shot out to the subscribers. This was Hank Nelson, the big wheat-haired, raw-boned, capable ex-cub reporter who was fast becoming one of the most dependable men on his staff. He was finding it very easy to delegate more and more authority to Nelson. The younger man took it lightly. When Harder told him to use his own judgment Hank said okay and left. At last, after nearly two hours of hectic scrambling, the office was cleared. He was about to tell Doris he was leav- ing for the day when the buzzer jumped on his desk. He pushed the button on the intercom. “Yes?” “A visitor to see you, Mr, Harder,” Doris’ crisp voice said. “T'm afraid I won't be able to see anyone else today, Miss Mosely. I was just leaving for downtown.” “It’s Mrs. Clay Gordon. She seems anxious to talk to you.” “Hmmm.” His heart leaped into his throat. “Hmmm. Well, perhaps I have a few minutes, Ask her to come in, please.” The sight of Betsy Gordon’s fresh beauty was as stimu- lating to his senses as the first dry martini after a hard day. She was bareheaded and her hair had been tangled56 CHEATING WIVES hopelessly by the autumn wind. Her coat was open and her hands plunged into the deep pockets. A rust-colored skirt flared wide. The soft green sweater was tucked in at the waist so tightly that her saucy breasts were well- outlined, She wore nylons and low-heeled shoes. “Mr. Harder,” she began as she entered the door. “Please forgive me—my appearance—but you know how my wardrobe is—almost nonexistent.” “Nonsense, my dear,” he said effusively. “Chair? May I take your coat? Cigarette?” The yes and no came on cue and presently they were seated opposite each other, Betsy with legs uncrossed and Jeaning forward, ber hands still in her pockets. To Harder she looked like a child who had had adulthood thrust upon her too suddenly and was now trying her best to bear up under the load. Obviously something was on her mind and she was worrying about it. Nevertheless, she still had that delicious innocence which had first caught his fancy. “I know I shouldn't be coming here, Mr. Harder, but I was desperate. At least I thought I was. Now that I’m here I’m not so sure.” Harder felt a paternal glow rise in him. “First of all, relax, Betsy. The world isn’t coming to an end. First things first.” Betsy blinked and tried to smile. “I know, Mr. Harder. And I am being silly. But—” “I doubt if you could be silly, Betsy,” Harder murmured profoundly. “What is it all about?” She shrugged. “That's just it—I don’t know. I feel like a fool.” Clearly she was so overwrought that she couldn’t be coherent or rational. She clasped and unclasped her hands a dozen times. “Look, Betsy,” he said crisply. “My car is outside, waiting to take me downtown. Suppose you come along and talk there. I rather suspect that you aren't veryCHEATING WIVES 37 comfortable here. Come. We'll take a pleasant drive.” Betsy’s smile was half a grimace, as if she were strug- gling to hold back tears. And if he was not mistaken, his words of kindness and thoughtfulness had struck close to her heart. It so often happened that way—a few routine courtesies at the right time were worth more than a mink coat in the end. Unless: he was mistaken he had just taken the first step toward possessing Betsy Gordon. They left by his private elevator to avoid passing through the office again and possibly being detoured. Betsy was quiet and solemn, hands plunged deep into her pockets, But Harder could not help noticing that despite her limpness of spirit and body, the classic lines of her figure remained firm and alluring. Under the bonds of the sweater her breasts were still saucy imps, up- lifted as if inviting his hands to meet them. Once in the back seat of the black limousine with the chauffeur safely glassed off from the conversation, Betsy relaxed, stretching her slim legs all the way out. She smiled up at him. “You're much too kind to me, Mr. Harder,” she said, “Perhaps I’ve misjudged you and the company.” “Depends.” Harder grinned indulgently. “Newsmen are surprising people.” “They sure are,” Betsy answered wryly. “They sure are.” Harder dug a cigar out of the humidor next to the seat and lighted it with a flat silver lighter. He blew the grey smoke against the partitioning window where it struck and shattered in concentric waves without a sound. Betsy’s eyes followed the resultant patterns absently. “It’s about Clay, of course.” “J assumed as much, Does he want a raise?” “Oh, it’s not money, Mr. Harder. We’re both delighted with what he makes. No, it’s not money.” “Whew! You just saved me the fifty dollars more a week I was going to offer. You'd be surprised how many58 CHEATING WIVES tragedies are averted by the offer of a raise. But if it’s not money, what is it?” Betsy was staring out the window at the passing traffic and the pedestrians who leaned into the brisk wind and tugged at hat brims. “I'd like to see you give Clay a transfer—a new assignment.” Harder’s brows went up in genuine astonishment. “Say that again.” Betsy repeated her words without altering a syllable. “Hmmm. This is a switch. You can’t imagine how many times a day I get calls from wives of my men beg- ging me to bring them home. Or letters from overseas complaining about conditions and facilities and cursing Bartley Harder as a bloodless dictator who should be shot.” . Instinctively she touched his hand. “Oh, Mr. Harder, I don’t think that. I think you’re wonderful. And Clay thinks so, too.” The feel of her tender fingers made his skin dance. “Thanks. You don’t know how much that means, Betsy. Even us old codgers need some encouragement now and then.” “['ll be glad to give you a letter of recommendation.” Betsy smiled. “Don't be rash—I may ask for one some day. Now, what is this nonsense about an assignment?” “Well, it may be nonsense, as I think it over, but it’s necessary, Mr. Harder. It’s necessary if Clay and I are going to stay married.” A sudden flood of joy welled up in him. Forcing his voice to remain steady he said, “That’s pretty serious. What makes you think things are that bad?” He studied the glowing tip of his cigar through narrowed eyes. Betsy held her hands out in a hopeless gesture. Her crossed legs were slim lines of perfection as she balanced a shoe on the end of her toes. “I’m losing him, Mr. Har- der. We must-get away from here. I know if we are offCHEATING WIVES 59 together things will straighten out and be all right.” “Where?” . “Anywhere. Back to the Middle East. The Pacific. South America. Get us in a war. I don’t care. But just send us away from here, away from New York.” “Does he know about this?” “No,” she said quietly. “No, he doesn’t.” “Where is Clay now?” “At the hotel. Asleep. He returned from the dinner very late. He didn’t say anything. He just came in and went to bed and was there in the morning. That was when I made up my mind about seeing you. Am I awful?” This was getting to be a little more complicated than Harder had bargained for. He would have to handle it carefully. The wrong word or inflection now would wreck everything. And the right one could make all his dreams come true. Next to him was a woman-child who resembled a wounded bird. He longed to place his arm around her .and draw her near. As she leaned forward in anxiety her breasts pointedly filled the sweater she wore. “No, you're not awful, Betsy. You're pretty special. I won't pretend to know what is going on with Clay and you. But if you are correct then it is a serious situation. I don’t know what I can do, but if there is any way to help, you can count on me.” With a little cry Betsy bent toward him and kissed his cheek. The imprint burned into the flesh and he felt the blood rise into his face. The comforting hand then laid on her shoulder was far from purely paternal. He glanced at his watch. “This meeting I’m supposed to attend isn’t so damned important. Suppose we go back up to the apartment and work this out over a drink. Might clear the air and you'll be able to see the situation in a clearer perspective.” “I wouldn't want to inconven—” “Bosh. Willis,” he said into the speaking tube, “home, please.”60 CHEATING WIVES Harder saw bewilderment touch Betsy’s features but she made no protest. Obviously she was in such a state that she would obey orders of any kind. Any kind? Well, that remained to be seen. As he had hoped, Joyce was not in—probably out on another of her innumerable shopping tours . . . or else visiting a girl friend. Furthermore, it was the maid’s day off. The apartment was empty. Moving through the spacious rooms, Betsy Gordon. looked frail and small. Harder followed her, watching the flash of her good legs under the swirl of her coat. When he took the garment his fingers brushed along the silken smoothness of her sweater and he had to resist the urge to seize her then and kiss her. She noticed nothing and proceeded to the library. In a moment he was stirring highballs while Betsy nerv- ously paced over the deep carpet. Finally she sat down with such a flourish that the hem of her skirt flew up to expose one knee and a generous expanse of nylon-clad thigh. That did it. Until that instant he was undecided as to his plan of action. Now he knew what he had to do. Taking a chair that faced her and afforded him an un- obstructed view of her slim loveliness, he offered her a glass, clinked it with his and drank. Betsy imitated him and made a pretty face. “I'm afraid I'm not used to this so early in the day.” “Who is? But in this case I think it will help. Now, Betsy. Suppose you give me as much as you can of this thing. Conceivably, it might be settled without such drastic action. I for one would hate to see you folks leave so soon after arriving. Joyce was saying just last night that it was time some interesting young people were in circulation.” “In a way I'd hate it, too. I haven’t seen my relatives in St. Paul yet and there is so much to do here. However, this is more important. You see, I think he has fallen for another woman.”CHEATING WIVES 61 Harder cocked his head. “Quick work, I would say. He’s been here only three days. An old flame?” “No,” was the answer. “A new one. Anyway, I know using a weapon like this and running off, is hardly the way to combat it, but 1 don’t know what else to do. It may not be too late if he has to leave and is separated from her for a long time.” Harder eyed her appreciatively. “Beats the hell out of me why he would go off and leave a creature like you. If you were mine, Betsy, you could be sure of fidelity.” “That’s nice of you, Mr. Harder, but right now I don’t feel much like a seductress. I’m just a housewife and J'm scared.” A shiver shook her slender frame. This was the moment. Harder slipped next to her, his arm out. Almost automatically she came into him, pliable and inherently warm. Her scent rose to his nostrils, titil- lating them. From this angle, above her, he saw her fine breasts and the way her skirt dipped between the columns of her thighs. He took a deep breath. Lightly, weightlessly, like a falling snowflake, a tear- drop spattered silently on the back of her hand. “If it will make you feel any better,” Harder said huskily, “I'll look into a new assignment for Clay tomor- tow. I doubt if there'll be any trouble at all. So damned many things going on in the world and so damned few dependable men like Clay—men who can evaluate and report.” “Anywhere at all.” “Let me see,” he said, digging into his brain to come up with rational, meaningful words. Her proximity was acting on him like an enervating drug. “There’s always action in Asia—but no place for a woman there. They say Mt. Etna is due to erupt any time now—but it might mean a long, expensive wait for nothing. Hmmm. Now, there is a Big Five Conference due to begin in Switzerland next week.”62 CHEATING WIVES “Switzerland sounds grand.” She hesitated. “Oh, this is terrible, for me to come crying to you. It must seem like Clay put me up to it.” “Shhh,” he whispered into her ear. The tendrils of hair brushed his lips. “Leave it all up to me, my dear. If your marriage can be saved by this, then we'll do it. Chase it right out of your mind. Look.” He lifted her chin with his hand and turned her face toward him. Their eyes met. A kind of rushing filled Harder’s ears and before he realized what he was doing he moved his face nearer and their lips touched. Betsy drew back as if burned. But fired by the kiss Har- der pulled her closer, his free hand seeking the delightful points that had hypnotized him. They were firmly yielding under his touch. The hand slid around her waist, impris- oning her. Once again their mouths came together. She struggled against his grip. « At last, panicky and angry, she broke away and stood up. Redness colored her features, Her breasts heaved tautly into the sweater. Small hands were clenched into small fists. “Betsy. Wait. Don’t misunderstand. I was carried away by it all. My heart is breaking for your pain.” Quickly, knowing every second was precious, Harder went to her, his face full of concern. Still stunned from the suddenness of the display, Betsy stood stiffly, as though eager to hear a rational explanation. Harder knew that his position still carried weight with her, and that surprise was his best weapon. “Listen to me carefully, Betsy. You are in a sticky situation. If you really want to save your marriage it can be done. But it must be done wisely and with care. What I did just now was to shock you—to show you you were still desirable and lovely—a woman any man would be proud of.” The anger left her eyes and her form loosened. “That's better. You have to fight fire with fire—parti-CHEATING WIVES 63 cularly if you are losing the one you love. All right—this new job is only part of it. There is much more to holding a man like Clay. If you will trust me I'll show you how to do it.” His eyes bored intensely into hers. “Will you trust me?” The only sound was that of their breathing. He could see the emotions ripple over her face—indecision, fear, love, terror—and at last there was a smile. “’m sorry,” she murmured. “I behaved like a fool. I know it wasn’t as bad as I thought it was, Bartley. I've just been so nervous and upset.” She passed a hand over her forehead. “I trust you. What shall I do?” The worst of it was over. He could relax now. Next to an enjoyable session in bed with a beautiful young girl, he enjoyed nothing more than the intrigue and complications leading up to it—the long-range seduction— so long as he was fairly sure of the reward at the end. Now that he had made this great step he was sure of the reward. He could afford to be generous. “First of all, don’t worry about the new assignment. Clay will be given a job within the week—I promise. Sec- ondly, you must not give any sign that you know of it, or that this meeting took place . . . or that we are any more than vague acquaintances. Is that agreed?” “t's agreed,” she answered, visibly softened toward him. “Okay. Pl bave Willis drive you back to your hotel. See Clay, have a long talk with him, find out just how deeply this thing goes with him. Then, if you will, check with me again as soon as you can. Or better still I'll call you some day when I know Clay is off somewhere.” Then they were saying good-bye and Betsy, really smil- ing now and radiating a new confidence, was going through the door. After she had left, Bart Harder poured himself a stiff shot and downed it in a gulp. This promised to be one of the trickiest and most complicated maneuvers he- had64. CHEATING WIVES ever engaged in. But, remembering Betsy's wonderful beauty, it would be worth it. That he bad shaded the truth a little was beside the point. After all, he would keep his promise and send Clay on a new assignment. All he had omitted was the minor detail that he would forbid Gordon to take his wife along. 6 LEIGH returned from walking the dogs and went straight to her room without seeking out either Joyce or Bart. To- day she was not up to their prying questions or solicitous comments on her “condition.” She preferred being with the dogs, which—even though they could not speak Eng- lish—-could converse with her with an intelligence that often was more interesting than Joyce's blow-by-blow account of her most recent shopping excursion. Besides, today she was feeling that she called “dis- tracted.” Nothing concrete was ailing her, no actual head- ache or backache or toothache, yet she felt that her entire body was alive with mysterious maladies. She knew it was largely mental, that her mental processes invariably con- trolled her physical being. An aching mind meant an aching body. Well, her mind was aching, distracted or not. Leigh wandered over to the window that overlooked the dying greenery of Central Park. The sky was a misty blue with the wisps of clouds scudding fast above the jagged skyline of the city. It gave her a sudden sharp pang of nostalgia, reminding her of other, happier Octo- bers when she was young and anxious to live and to love. The days had not changed—only she had changed. Turning, she saw herseif in the mirror on the back of the door. A tall, slender figure in slacks with a long- sleeved jersey and a suede vest over it. She noted, without conceit, that it curved properly in the right spots. Her hips, like her breasts, were smooth and well-shaped. WhenCHEATING WIVES 65 she walked, a little V appeared, disappeared and reap- peared in the material of the slacks just below her waist. The jersey was dented generously by the twin mounds of her strong, separated breasts. Yes, it was a good body, but what good was it? Ruled as it was by her mind it might have been made of wood. For her mind prevented her body from being utilized as nature had intended it to be. She knew the cause of this attack of melancholia. Clay Gordon. She made no pretense about it. She was in love with him. She had been since the first meeting under the trees in the park. The dinner had confirmed her suspicion and after that it was only a matter of circumstance until they were thrown together. For a few hours that night she felt that everything had changed, that she could love freely and willingly, that she could accept him with joy. But the little men inside her brain had fought him off. Why could she not forget Bruce and everything about him? Why did he haunt her, keeping her from the happi- ness she had earned a thousand times over. The struggle she was now engaged in was the bitterest since Bruce’s death. That she wanted Clay Gordon des- perately there was not the slightest doubt. That he was good and kind and genuine she knew too. That he had admirable self-control and respect for her, well, that was a proven fact. He embodied virtually every fine quality she would ever seek in a man—in a human being. Then, in addition, to have the tremendous physical effect on her that he did was breathtaking, However, there was a catch. Or a couple of catches, Leigh slipped the vest off and drew the jersey up and over her head. She had to get ready for cocktails tonight, so she might as well get at it. Unhooking her bra, she started for the bathroom. Her breasts, freed, felt pleasantly heavy. She looked down and they seemed to stare up at her with friendliness, They still held some of the sun they had gotten during the nude sun-baths in Florida.66 CHEATING WIVES It was almost necessary to peel off the slacks, so closely did they cling to her hips and legs, Rid of them, she slipped down the ribbed panties and stepped out of them. Utterly naked, she went into the bathroom, found a towel and hung it over the shower door. With the water cascading down over her skin, she dared to dwell further on Clay. A couple of flies in the ointment. He was married. Not only married but happily married to a fine and beautiful girl whom he loved. Much as Leigh wanted him, she drew the line at jamming a high heel into another woman's face to get him. It followed that a relationship which started off by causing unhappiness would end up in similar unhappiness, And what right did she have to barge into the middle of this good marriage and indulge her own desires? The second catch was closely related. She had not been just talking when she told Clay she feared she was jinxed, that she hesitated to get entangled with a man and chance bringing him ill luck. Convinced that she was partially to blame for Bruce's suicide, she would never quite recover from the guilt it had left in her. Combined, the two reasons presented a solid front against going any further into the affair. Idly she drew the sponge-rubber soap glove over her breasts as she stood away from the spray a moment. The white bubbles made a pretty trail over her flesh. She made a circular motion over the tip of one breast, aware of a twinkle of response. She did the same over her flat, in- curved waist and the rise of her belly. Then she stood under the water and washed the designs off. Yet would she get any peace now that she and Clay were in love? For she was sure he loved her. He must have loved her in the cabin that night because only a man in love would not have slept with her and imposed his will. Anyone else would have jumped first and apologized afterwards, And knowing that he loved her, she knew thatCHEATING WIVES 67 she could have the peace and contentment and relief she so badly needed, merely by reaching out and taking it. The shower stall was small enough so that she could lean against a wall and lift up one leg and brace it against the opposite wall. She did this now and drew her pad over the symmetrical length of her calf and thigh. It was a firm leg, with silken muscles covered by a taut, almost traus- parent layer of browned skin. Wide and full at the very top where it merged with her torso, it tapered neatly to her knee and then in swift lines became her calf and then the narrow band of her ankle. The soap was slippery and drib- bled over her thigh to the floor, where it was washed away. So she had a choice. It was an old one—one she had had to exercise many times in the past. Either she could plunge in and risk the consequences and gamble not only her own happiness but that of the others involved, or she could tur her back again and walk her dogs—alone. But darn it, she had been doing just that for two years turning her back and letting happiness slip away. Well, it was about time she repaid herself for the anguish and heartache she had suffered. And Clay was willing. All she had to do was give him the okay and he would be there— Betsy or no. And maybe then the storm in her insides would subside; the hunger there for a man and his love and his body was maddening. It was with her, every waking and sleeping moment. Sleeping—that was a good one. Dreams peopled with naked men, swarms of fish and endless lines of tele- phone poles, She would often awake more exhausted than when she had gone to sleep. All right, so she had to have a man... and the man had to be Clay Gordon. No one else would do. Well, if there was any getting him, it would be tonight. Bart had said the Gordons were also invited to the same gathering and had promised to come. If it wasn’t too late —if she had not scared him off with her sordid story of Bruce and her life with him—then she would try. It was68 CHEATING WIVES too bad that Betsy was so nice, but it was her own stupid fault for marrying a guy as attractive and wonderful as Clay Gordon. “Clay Gordon, I hate you!” Betsy didn’t say it aloud because she didn’t really mean it, She was saying it as a child would speak to its mother who had not given him his own way. No, she didn't hate Clay. She loved him as deeply as ever. What she hated were these frequent periods of non-communication, when he would sink into mute, brooding silences that effectively locked her out. Her attempts at lifting him back to her level had been futile. For a while she thought of not telling him about Bart Harder, afraid that he would go after Bart and kill him. Then she was afraid that he would do nothing, and that would have been a cruel insult to bear. Clay Gordon was acting as if he wished his wife weren’t alive. Oh, she could guess why. It had begun with that kiss on the terrace, Well, she was no prude. She didn’t really mind if her husband kissed an attractive girl. But to make such a production of it and hide and skulk around like a criminal was something else. He might even be in love with Leigh. It wouldn’t be pleasant to take, but the least he could do was say so and say he wanted a divorce. The last word nearly burst out and she blinked back tears. Now they were getting ready for another absurd cock- tail party because they had to go. But Clay was down in the bar having a few drinks with one of the boys from the office and she had to stay in the room and dress. That used to be one of their best sources of fun—helping one another dress. Now he wouldn’t even do that. Maybe he would for Leigh Harder. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she fought back the tears that threatened to come. She stood up to pull on blackCHEATING WIVES 69 sheer panties, a little angry that Clay was not present to comment on them—he usually did. She glanced down at them. If she were a man she would comment. They were dainty things with delicate Iacework along the sides that teasingly revealed glimpses of her pink hips. The legs were fringed with artful traceries. From them hung the black satin strands, two on each side, needed to hold up the stockings—the stockings Clay was so adept at putting on for her. She affixed the ribbed black brassiere to her breasts, bending forward to better fasten the backstrap. Then she sat down again and reached for the dark-threaded hosiery. They weighed riothing at all, but what a difference they made to legs, The utilitarian limbs were miraculously trans- formed from things to walk on to objects of beauty. She drew on one with care, cautious not to make a run—they were her best and most expensive pair. Clay had gotten them in Paris for her last year. Up over the slim calf and to the thigh. There she smoothed it out, checked the seam. Then she stood up again to draw it tight and fasten the front garter. Another quick check and she attached the garter that trailed over the back of her upper thigh. Presently, she had the other stocking on and was pulling the black petticoat over her hips. Then she found the dress she wanted, the one with the daringly cut neckline, It was dangerous, of course, but if Clay liked girls who wore such things she would try and please him. He always said her body was the finest he had ever seen. Well, not only would he get a chance to see it tonight, but so would many others. Bart Harder, for instance. In spite of the scene of the afternoon, she felt certain she could depend upon him to help her plot against—or with—Clay. The thought of the cleverness of her plan brightened her spirits. All was not lost yet. If she could just hold her temper for a few more days Clay would be back with her and they would be off to some far comer10 CHEATING WIVES of the world where they could not be touched. Thus up- lifted, she sat down with a magazine to await her hus- band’s return. On the way to the party Clay was surprisingly cordial and friendly—almost like a lover. He even kissed her cheek as they rode in the cab. Then Betsy knew the cause of his amity—the martinis he had drunk in the bar. She chattered on senselessly about New York and the things she had seen, but his face remained vacant and she knew he was not really listening. On their arrival they were greeted effusively by the host and hostess, one of the firm’s directors and his wife, and led to the living room where the affair was in full sway. She saw some of the people who had been at the Harders’ their first night, plus some she didn’t know. The snatches of conversations she heard told her most of them were in some branch of the newspaper business. Almost at once she was separated from Clay and cor- nered by Bart Harder. The big man was apologetic. “Betsy,” he said to her over the rim of a glass. “You must know I feel like a dog for the way I treated you yesterday. I hope you'll accept my apologies.” “Of course,” she replied with sincerity. “I was just taken off-guard. 1 doubt if there is a woman alive who doesn’t secretly like to be flattered that way.” Bart grinned ruefully. “You’re very kind. I hope I can make it up to you some day. I'd like to be friends with you.” “I consider you my friend now,” Betsy said. “But you'll be even more of a friend if you can give me good news.” Bart nodded his head vigorously. “Think I have just what you want. I spoke with my editors and they agree that Clay would be the one to cover the conference in Geneva.” Her heart leaped. “Grand. When?” “Today is Thursday. Probably Saturday. The pow-wow doesn’t start until Tuesday. Give him plenty of time to getCHEATING WIVES 71 set up and oriented. Everything will be all right again sooner than you think.” Betsy felt a rush of affection for the Old Man. Maybe he wasn’t so bad after ‘all. His momentary lapse in his library was probably just that. He had a big heart and if once in a while it overflowed, weil, you couldn’t feel offended. She looked around the room. Those who knew her nodded and made faces of greeting at her. Suddenly gayer than she had been in days, she took a long gulp out of Bart’s glass and joined them. Once, through a break in the crowd, she saw Clay and Leigh in the midst of an earnest conversation near the French doors, She had to admit that Leigh looked lovely. The unsmiling sobriety of the other night had given way to a lilting freshness and she was talking to Clay with animation. Having talked with Bart, Betsy no longer felt the con- suming jealousy eating at her. Leigh didn’t know, but her hours were numbered. Betsy felt a surge of triumph. She could even afford to be friendly. As she was about to wend her way through the throng, Bart appeared at her side again. “Betsy. Don’t rush off.” “Tm not going anywhere.” “T hope not. I want to talk to you.” “Talk away.” She laughed. “But first I could use a drink. I’m ready to kick up my heels tonight.” Bart waved to a passing maid and produced a highball. “I realize I'm old enough to be your father but there are some things I must tell you.” “Tm all ears.” His eyes were burning into hers with a peculiar in- tensity. “May I say that you are one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen?” “You may.” “And probably one of the most dangerous.” “Ha, That’s a good one. I have troubie killing flies.” “I mean it. Around you is an aura of allure and magnet-72 CHEATING WIVES ism that makes me dizzy. And every other man who meets you.” Betsy cocked her head. If nothing else, Bart certainly did have a way with words. “How you do go on.” “Please,” Bart said fervently. “I’m serious. The danger I speak of certainly exists—because it will make a man take chances he would never dream of ordinarily. But there is also something else that makes you a living para- dox. You are also loaded with a helplessness and inno- cence that makes each man want to take care of you and protect you.” His eyes left her face and strayed down to the deep V of her neckline. Unless she was mistaken, enough of the fringe of her black bra showed for him to get an eyeful. It had been a long time since she had consciously flirted. She found now that she enjoyed it and liked having a man like Bart Harder, who knew many beautiful and sophisti- cated women, tell her such pleasant lies. He went on. “The truth is, Betsy, that I’m finding my- self thinking about you all the time, all day long. That's part of the danger in you.” Betsy laughed and lifted ber hands like claws. “Grrr. Look out or I'll eat you up.” Bart caught one of her hands in his. “I wouldn't mind a bit.” “Don’t be silly. I know you and Joyce are the happiest people around.” “How about you and Clay?” “That's something else again. It’s difficult to know what is going to happen. I do think though that once we get away from here we'll be all right. You don’t know how much this means to me.” “T think I do.” A tall cadaverous-looking man with a high, bony fore- head and hollow cheekbones said hello to Bast. “Betsy, may I present George Attwood, the head of the biggest. wire service in the country. I always say that theCHEATING WIVES 73 next best thing to a good friend is a good enemy. And that’s what George is—my favorite enemy.” Attwood grunted. “The truth, Bart. You’re my enemy nowadays, I don’t mind admitting.” “How so? Your boys scooped mine on the plane crash the other day.” “Not talking about that,” Attwood said without expres- sion. “I’m talking about how you scooped us three years ago-—on Clay Gordon.” The Old Man threw his head back and roared. Liquor spilled over the edge of his glass. Betsy watched with curi- osity. George Attwood turned to her, his sad bloodhound eyes even sadder. “This old crook stole your husband out from under my nose, Mrs. Gordon. We thought we had him signed, sealed and on-the-job, but Bart Harder snatched him away. Consequently, Bart will get the honors and not us.” “What honors, Mr. Attwood?” “The big prize, that’s what,” Attwood growled un- happily. “Everybody knows it. The guessing now is for who will get second place. Clay’s reporting from the Middle East reads like a Churchill speech. You should be very proud of him.” “I am,” Betsy said quietly. “And now I hear he’s off to Geneva. The sonofagun ought to be sitting at the table making history instead of reporting it.” He poked a jong finger into Bart’s chest. “Mark my words, I'll get him some day, Harder.” “Go ahead and try, Attwood. I’m not worried. Clay knows when he’s well off. Doesn’t he, Betsy?” “Yes. I guess he does.” “You're very pretty, my dear,” Attwood said. “And you can tell your husband I said so. You are both lucky.” “Thank you.” Attwood’s lanky figure faded away into the drinkers and Betsy watched him go. Sympathy for the man rose74 CHEATING WIVES in her. There was an element of tragedy about him and she wondered why. Bart anticipated her question. “Don't worry too much about George, Betsy. Most newspapermen wind up as misanthropes in the end, We see too much of life and death and destruction. Disaster is our business. After a while we expect the worst and when someone does some- thing nice for someone else it's a rude shock.” He paused reflectively. “Yet in men like that reside big hearts. They have no inhibitions about speaking their minds. Which is why they are so unpopular with the big shots. It works two ways, of course—they are also kind and gen- erous, They never let a friend go hungry—and when they meet a beautiful girl they tell her so.” “He makes me feel sorry for him.” “That’s probably because you are getting to be one of us.” “I envy you all.” “Don’t. We have terrible jobs to do. Stay as you are— pure, untouched, innocent. Clay needs that more than anything else.” Over his shoulder Betsy saw Clay’s head close to Leigh’s. “Does he?” she asked quietly. “Speaking of Clay,” Bart interrupted, “suppose we find him. He doesn’t know about the strategy yet.’ “Yes, let's.” A flicker of annoyance danced over Clay’s features as they approached. “Clay, boy, ’ve got some pleasant dope for you,” Bart boomed as he clapped an arm around his shoulders. “About time,” Clay grinned stiffly. “What is it?” Betsy nodded at Leigh and was rewarded wth an icy look in return. Odd, but the girl didn’t even seem embar- rassed about having Clay’s wife catch her in the act. “You know about the big conference starting in Switzer- Jand next week, don't you?” “Of course.”CHEATING WIVES 1S “How would you like to handle it?” Clay frowned. “But I just got back, Bart. I thought the good news was word of a long vacation in the mountains.” “This is in the mountains—the Alps. We need a good man over there, You'll get the vacation when you get back. It'll only take ten days. I swear to it.” Bart crossed his heart. Clay shook his head. Clearly, he was irritated and Betsy wondered if she had made a serious mistake in forcing this. He might balk and cause trouble. At that moment Leigh spoke up. “Clay, I think it would be grand. Wouldn’t hurt your reputation a bit.” Betsy bit her lip. That was precisely the thing she should have said. What right did Leigh have usurping her posi- tion? “And Betsy,” Clay went on. “She’s in need of a long rest, too. It wasn't easy living with those natives for a “Don’t worry about Betsy,” Bart said. “This is going to be such a hot and heavy ten days I doubt if she’ll be able to take it. I'm going to advise against your taking her.” Betsy’s heart plummeted to her shoes. She couldn’t believe her ears. When Clay’s face lit up at Bart’s words, she felt even worse. Bart turned to her. “I mean it, Betsy. It would be better to stay right here in New York and make plans for the second honeymoon when Clay gets back. Don't you agree?” She couldn’t answer. She wanted to scream that Bart had betrayed her, but if she did, Clay would know she had maneuvered behind his back. “I know those conferences, Betsy,” Leigh murmured softly. “They are ghastly. And when the correspondents finish a day of trying to make sense of what they bargain about, they aren’t fit to live with.” “That's right, Leigh,” Bart interjected. “You have cov- ered some of them, haven’t you?”76 CHEATING WIVES “Correct. In fact, I was going to ask if you wouldn’t accredit me as a special correspondent to do the woman's angle.” “Good idea,” the Old Man said through pursed lips. “Very good. Could you leave Saturday?” “I could leave tomorrow.” “Fine. Clay will follow Saturday and between the two of you there could be a helluva report.” Betsy no longer listened. The old jealousy and nausea and fear was in her again. For all her planning and plot- tig, she had been outplayed. Exactly what she didn’t want had come to pass. Leigh Harder was going to be alone with Clay Gordon while Betsy Gordon stayed home and did the knitting—with a very eager Bart Harder to hold at bay. 7 Leigh flew up from Rome while Clay took an Air- France plane from Paris. On learning the conference had been delayed two days by the “indisposition” of the Rus- sian delegates, they found they had forty-eight hours to kill. So, in mutual silence, they rented a car and pro- ceeded to’ drive up along the northern shore of Lake Leman. On their left were the steep hills of vineyards, newly plucked of grapes. To the right, across the incredi- bly brilliant blue of the lake, the Alps shouldered upward in stupendous glory with Mont Blanc gleaming white in the late afternoon sun. They did not speak much, content to see the mountains and the water. Besides, there was not very much to say. They knew where they were going—and why. Leigh asked about the dogs and Clay told her they were moping and mooning over her absence. She did not mention Betsy and neither did he. This was not a denial of her existence, merely an awareness that Betsy had no part here, ThereCHEATING WIVES 77 were only the two of them, and no one and nothing else could intrude, As they approached Lausanne, set on its hills, Clay thought it the cleanest, loveliest city he had ever seen. A quickening in his heart made him drive faster. Leigh cast a sidelong glance at him, smiling, as if reading his thoughts, For a long time he had been aware that Switzer- land was “Americanized,” but Lausanne was still a pleas- ant shock with its wide streets and new buildings and automobiles sporting license plates from fifty different countries. They found a hotel on the lake front and although they had to show their passports and register with dissimilar names, the desk clerk made no comment. Obviously he ‘was quite accustomed to such sophisticated arrangements. Nevertheless, Clay felt furtive. Only when they were alone in the room did he finally relax. “It’s a lovely room,” Leigh said as she stood at the wrought-iron railing of the tiny balcony that extended over the street to afford a view of the snowy peaks. The room was too small and the double bed was not very wide and they had to walk down the hall to the john, but Clay agreed that it was a lovely room. Kneeling at his; suitcase he dug out a bottle of cognac and handed it up to her and watched as she tilted her head back and allowed the liquid to enter her mouth. Her throat gulped twice and a few drops trickled down over her chin. Clay stood up and snatched the bottle from her. Then he kissed hers The taste of brandy on her lips was delicious, He held the bottle in one hand, preferring to drink from her mouth, Suddenly, with an abandon that had not been evident during the trip, Leigh fiung herself against him, clinging desperately. Their crushed mouths created a warm, dry flame. The entire lean length of her body melted into his. Just as abruptly, she drew back and regarded him with pes slightly out of focus, “Clay.” Her voice was low and arse.78 CHEATING WIVES “Leigh?” “It's not too late, you know. You can get another room. Or we can go back to Geneva.” “It is too late, Leigh,” he replied simply. Face flushed, she turned away, her normally neat hair mussed. She placed a hand to still her beating heart. “I mean too late for you, Clay. I want you. Ob, I want you so very, very much, But—” “Be quiet,” he whispered gently, putting a finger to her lips. “Be quiet.” With that contact and that simple command, what he had known from the very first day in the park, a million years and three thousand miles ago, began to happen. She stood motionless as he loosened the top button of her blouse, then the next and the next. Tenderly he slipped the garment back over her arms, imprisoning them. Her bosom waited in firm impatience—white and round and inviting. “Leigh's eyes closed and her head went back. “Kiss mel” It was Leigh’s turn to command. Clay obeyed. “Clay. Clay. Clay!” They were on the bed now, as though a great hand had urged them to it. And he was searching for her through the maddening protection of her clothing, At last he found her—waiting for him as he knew she would be. Under his sensitized touch she was smoothly yielding, the dips and curves inherently warm. All thoughts were banished from his mind. There was no conference. No park. No hotel. No bed, No Betsy. Side by side, they faced each other, no longer impatient or hasty—mutually prolonging the delights, secure in the knowledge that at last they were together. The chase was over—the maneuvering, the hiding, the fear . . . the pain, They were together now. Two bodies surrounded by one will, dedicated to a single irresistible action. With knowing fingers he explored his newfound treasureCHEATING WIVES 79 like a blind man who at last regains his sight. As if he could not believe she would be this lovely—or if anything could be this lovely. Mouths met in joyous intimacy. His hands went over the slender isthmus of her waist, then lower until they were swept outward by the hip curves. The two of them remained that way, side by side, but no longer apart. For they were one, fused and welded, their faces an inch apart, eyes so close that lashes touched, Slowly, oh so slowly, she moved toward him, like a swell- ing warm wave from the sea. When she retreated it was a blast of Arctic winter. To prevent such an occurrence again he locked her with his arms, allowing her to move only as he wished. Such a sensation he did not know could exist. That the fragile glory of a woman's body could dominate his strong male power was magical, almost ethereal, and the thought made him surge out of himself, out and away from the flesh-bonds of her legs and the insistent pressures of her breasts. High, soaringly high, breathtakingly high, leaving the two alone together, as a bird which has flown in and then retired in discreet haste. Far above the sapphire blue of the lake and the crystal whiteness of Mont Blanc where he saw the knifed ridges and the deep crevasses, the cliffs and alabaster slopes and the frozen rippled rivers of ice. Gliding free and unfettered, unhindered, out of reality and into a nether world of neo-realism. Seeing the globe as a grape. As two grapes. Far down on the slopes, the thrust of a snowy promontory. There was an imperceptible motion as the wall near it cracked. The black line snaked across the snow rapidly. Another movement, visible this time and then a massive sheet of snow and ice was sliding downward in slow mo- tion. Falling free, the huge chunk struck the frozen river and smashed it. Then it seemed that the entire side of the mountain collapsed in a deafening roar that sent rever- berations echoing through the iced air. A Niagara of sound and fury. Powerful hammerstrokes of nature pounding80 CHEATING WIVES with-a curious, rushing rhythm that could not be impeded. All at once everything was obliterated as a cloud of fine white snow-dust rose, drifting. There was only the sound, and then, soon, that too faded and there was only peace... They had dinner at an open-air restaurant near the illuminated dock where the excursion steamers picked up tourists for the trip downlake to Geneva. They listened unattentively to the four-piece orchestra whose leader fancied himself a vocalist. A new moon peeked around from behind a mountain across the lake, casting yellow streamers across the black water. Clay was in a kind of waking daze, a state of mind which made everything he ate taste like nectar. Now and then he reached over the small round table to touch Leigh’s hand as though to reassure himself of her presence. Next to her, every other woman in the area was drab and dreary. A somnolent sleepiness had come over him, giving him a sense of completeness and fullness. He was in love. And he was about to tell Leigh so when it happened. A clear, feminine voice darted between them like a shaft of splintered glass. “Clay! Clay Gordon!” Numb, his heart pumping wildly, Clay looked around. Out of the gloom, beyond the picket-and-hedge fence, he saw a woman waving frantically at him. Behind her was a man. The machinery of his mind flicked through his memory. He could never forget that voice. Penny Cramer, a friend of Betsy’s from Istanbul, where she had worked in the Embassy and done her bit to cement East- West relations with her own version of the Marshall Plan —the Penny Plan. Across the table he saw that the reminiscent smile on Leigh’s wonderful face had altered imperceptibly to a faint grimace of pain. He had no choice but to acknowledge the greeting. Half the diners in the restaurant had heard the cry and nowCHEATING WIVES 81 were watching with undisguised interest. It was like a waking nightmare—and Clay suddenly wished he would really wake up. Penny Cramer, a dizzy blonde with a wide mouth and big eyes, a bouncing bosom and wriggly hips, dashed toward them, heedlessly bumping elbows and spilling soup. “Clay, darling! And Betsy—oh!” She did the worst possible thing then. She stopped speak- ing, the words haif out, her painted face gaping. The man behind her appeared to have more sense, but it was too late. Her approach had spilled more than soup. Clay tried to grin a welcome. “Penny,” be said weakly. “How nice to see you. This is a surprise.” As quickly as possible he tried to absorb the couple into the smallest possible space. If a hole were handy he would have dropped them into it. “This is my boss, Miss Harder. Won’t you sit down? We were just or- dering coffee. If you don’t mind shoptalk, that is.” This was the only way. If he attempted to lie or maneu- ver, everything would be lost. The blonde made a sound like a giggle and turned to the man who had reluctantly trailed her into the chaos. “Cedric, do meet these nice people. Clay is the most won- derful guy in the whole world.” Belatedly she lowered her voice. “This is Miss Harder and this is Cedric, my hus- band. He's British,” she added as an apologetic explana- tion. Cedric was a buck-toothed chap with an impossible haircut who looked as if he had money. Lots of it. He gave Clay a limp band. On the bandstand, as if miffed at having the entertain- ment spotlight stolen from him, the singer-bandleader swung into a double-talking, mumbling mambo that suc- cessfully regained the attention of the audience. Clay could have kissed him, fat oily face and all. A waiter arrived with extra chairs and then they were sitting around the postage-stamp table like four friends.82 CHEATING WIVES Penny said, “We can't stay long, really,” but made no effort to get up. “We're on our honeymoon. Aren't we, dear?” Cedric nodded wearily. Until that moment Clay had secretly hoped that the gitl was on another of her flings—collecting pennies. In the past she had made a joke of extracting a penny from her men for each of her bedtime favors. She kept them in a piggybank and had once claimed to have nearly twenty dollars in pennies, But that had been at least two years before. Apparently, Clay thought, she was going in for shillings now. In any case, his hope for privacy was destroyed. Now he—and Leigh—were entirely at Penny’s mercy. If there was such a thing in that sex-packed body. “Well,” Penny sighed, obviously prepared for a long stay. “Fancy seeing you here, Didn't Betsy come? Or is this all business?” She put a slight emphasis on the last word. “Work, Miss Harder and I are covering the conference in Geneva for the news service. We drove up for dinner— just to get away from the stench of international intrigue. Ha ha.” “Ha ha,” Penny replied, clearly not believing a word of it but willing to go along. She had played this game before. This was like a windfall for her, and like a terrier with a rat she could not resist shaking it for all it was worth. “Tell me, Clay, how is Betsy, anyway? She’s such a dreadful correspondent, you know. Pregnant yet? She always claimed she was going to have oodles of babies.” This was accompanied by a coy glance at Cedric, who shifted in his seat and blinked. Clay smiled grimly. “Not yet. But we're trying.” Then, because he felt malicious, “How about you?” Penny playfully slapped his wrist. “Naughty boy. We're only married a week. Aren’t we, Ceddy?”CHEATING WIVES 83 Cedric smiled wearily. It looked more like a millennium as far as he was concerned. Leigh sat in austere silence, as though trying to render herself invisible. Clay wondered if she would cry. “When you write to your mate, you give her my love, Clay. I do miss her so. And I bet you do, too.” Her gaze flicked briefly to Leigh. “You must visit us in London. We have a town house.” “Of course. I'm getting off a letter tonight.” Would she never leave? “Yes, indeedy. But look,” Penny said, “if you folks are going to be in Geneva for a few days perhaps we can all meet for dinner soon, That is, if you don’t have to slave too much. Tomorrow night? Where are you staying?” Clay told her the name of the hotel the Harder News Service always used. “Likely we'll be pretty busy, but take the chance if you wish. Miss Harder may not still be there, but I will. Be grand to see you.” “Mmmm. Yes. It sure will.” She glanced at her wrist watch ostentatiously. Leigh plunged in. “Beautiful watch. A wedding gift?” “Indeedy. From Cedric. Isn’t he sweet?” She leaned forward and stage-whispered, “I think he kind of goes for me.” Leigh laughed in a voice on the outer rim of hysteria. For an instant Clay thought it would stray off, but it came back and he breathed again. Cedric offered a watery smirk. “Well,” Penny said grandly. “We must be off. We're going to ride up the funicular. Way up the hill. Want to come?” : “Not now, thanks, Penny. We have to run.” “All righty. Bye now. And remember me to Betsy. And don’t work too hard. A great pleasure to meet you, Miss Harder. Say good-bye, Ceddy.” Ceddy said good-bye and limply followed the bouncy form of his wife. Penny walked with a subtle hip-movement84 CHEATING WIVES that had the band playing off key for a moment. Her clinging form-fitting skirt outlined each dimple of her luscious hips. The seams of her sheer nylons were arrows from the tops of her high heels up to her skirt, to dis- appear in the darkness there. As the couple faded back into the gloom from whence they had come, Clay fought down an urge to call out, “Don't take any wooden pennies,” the old battle cry. But it would be unwise to antagonize the blonde at a time like this. For a long time neither Clay nor Leigh spoke. She seemed thoroughly absorbed in making rings with the bottom of her coffee cup. Clay’s mouth was dry and his throat tight. “Great girl,” he murmured. “Yes. Just great. Clay?” “Yes?” “Remember that night at the apartment? The first thing you said to me?” “It’s a small world?” “It’s a damned small world. Clay, I don’t feel very well. Let’s get away from here.” Without waiting, she rose at once and walked out to the street. He signaled the waiter and paid, leaving an extra-large tip. Then he went after Leigh. He found her at the lake- edge, where the dark water lapped at the pebbles of the shore. The moon was higher now and he could see her face clearly. He touched her shoulder with his hand. “I want to die,” Leigh said softly. He seized her arms and held tight. “Don’t say that. Even as a joke. It could have happened to anyone. Anywhere. I had no idea that idiot-child would be heye. Besides, I’m convinced she didn't think a thing. Penny‘ never thinks. She’s famous for it.” Under his touch Leigh trembled violently. “It’s all tuined, Clay, Everything. In just one night. I’m bad luck, Clay. A jinx. Everything I touch ‘tums to stone.” “You're wrong, you're rong, you're wrong,” he re-CHEATING WIVES 85 peated fiercely. “It wasn’t you. You had nothing to do with it. It was me.” Tearless sobs shook her body. “It was me,” she whis- “Leigh. Listen to me. I love you. Do you hear that? I never told you before—but I’ve had it. I've felt it. I’ve lived it. I love you.” “Don’t love me—please.” . “I have no choice. I have to love you.” “You love Betsy.” Clay hesitated. “Yes, I love Betsy, And you. It’s possible to love two, you know. I won't deny Betsy.” “You can’t,” Leigh said bitterly. “There are too many Pennies in the world.” She laughed mirthlessly. “That was a pretty lousy pun.” “It was a lovely pun and you are lovely and I love you.” “Don't, Clay. We should go back to Geneva. Tonight. I know that Ceddy and Penny will be looking for us. They probably have the room next to ours.” “We'll do no such thing.” He fought down a rising panic. “Dammit, Leigh, you're putting too much on this. That kid is so wrapped up in herself she never noticed a Leigh shook her head and moonlight sparkled in her hair. “No? She looked at me, Clay. Women know. She knew. She knew we had been to bed. That we were in love. Women know.” Every muscle in Clay’s body was tense with impotent fury. His jaws ached. Inside his skull each of Leigh’s words echoed and re-echoed as in a hollow cavern. “To hell with Penny and her husband. It’s none of their business.” “To hell with Betsy?” Leigh inquired softly. Clay’s fingers dug deeply into her arms. Leigh winced. “This has nothing to do with Betsy,” he muttered. “Sut it does. You belong to her. By law. Penny looked at me just as if 1 were a—a—a whore. You're hurting me, Clay.”86 CHEATING WIVES “And you're hurting me, Leigh.” He released her. “All right. Let’s finish this back at the hotel. It’s getting chilly.” “Chilly? Yes, it is getting chilly.” They walked back together, heavily, lifelessly. Clay did not know what else he could say to reassure her. Perhaps the best thing would be simply to let the mood run its course. Or else to display his love for her as mightily as possible to scourge her dismal thoughts from her mind. The afternoon had been an unforgettable monument to their love. He would build it even higher. But when they returned and had undressed and turned out the light, Leight was cold to his touch, a marble statue. For a few minutes he attempted to force her, but her lips were without warmth for him and she lay on her back, motionless and emotionless. Finally he realized it was useless, that she was beyond him now, too far away for him to reach. He knew even if he beat her she would re- main distant and aloof. At last, he rolled over and let the rigors of the day catch up with him and put him to sleep. When he awakened next morning the other half of the bed was empty. Leigh had gone. 8 THe WEEK after Leigh left to vanish into the thin clear air of Switzerland, and unti} the conference had run its in- terminable, talkative course, Clay Gordon existed in a half-life, a living death. Somehow he managed to cover the meetings, doing even more than was expected of him, interviewing the prin- cipal figures and painstakingly filing his dispatches—any- thing to occupy his mind and prevent him from going berserk. He dared not take a drink for fear he would be unable to stop after the first one. Internally his entrails churned in a perpetual sickness,CHEATING WIVES 87 as though he were on the verge of throwing up—but he never did, much to his discomfort. He recognized this as a sort of penance, a special hell devised for him, and there- fore made no efforts to cure or alleviate it. At the same time, a very real ache settled in the region of his heart, a dull pain as though a stone were lodged there. Whether this ache stemmed from the growing sense of guilt, he did not know, Guilt that he had knowingly de- ceived the wife he loved, guilt for being caught virtually in the act by Penny Cramer’s highly unpropitious arrival —or perhaps self-recrimination for having caused Leigh to go through an agony so piercing that she could not even let it be soothed by his love. Possibly it was compounded of parts of all the elements —aided and abetted by the eternal conversations he held within himself, when he would thrash himself unmerci- fully, hearing again every word as though feeling the stab of a dagger. In bed, sleep rarely came before dawn as he listened to each footfall in the hotel corridor outside his door, every squeak of the stairs, hoping blindly that Leigh had miraculously returned and would suddenly burst in and throw herself on him. She never came. Sometimes he would wake feverishly and reach for her, expecting his hand to find a bared, love-warm breast awaiting his caress, or the slim length of an inviting thigh asking for his attentions. The hallucinations were so real that he would breathe heavily and his body would strain tremendously and his loins ache with desire. And even though he would be calmer afterward and drop into a ponderous sleep, it was—in the end—only his imagina- tion, and there would be no dark head snuggled into the crook of his arm and no murmured words of affection and no languorous body pressing quietly to his. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. By day he went through his routine as though drugged.88 CHEATING WIVES He did not trust himself to write to Betsy. And he had no idea where Leigh could be. Never had he felt more inadequate, helpless—or use- less. He was divorced from the world, a zombie mov- ing about among living men, and he wondered if ever he would smile again. But, regardless, time could not be stopped and the con- ference would end and he would return to the States. Re- tum to Bart Harder and Joyce Harder . . . and Betsy Gordon. Then he would really have to come out of this stupor and discover what he could do about picking up the pieces of his life and putting them together again. Clay left Geneva by car for Zurich. He rode with three other correspondents who were catching the same plane for Paris, chartered collectively by their papers. One had thoughtfully brought along a prized bottle of Kentucky bourbon and generously passed it around. Clay took his first drink in over a week—and liked it. He even unbent enough to join in the raucous, dirty-joke atmosphere. His colleagues were astonished after his long self-imposed silence at the conference and encouraged him. That was why be was drunk when they got to Zurich and why the others had to all but carry him into the air- craft. It was late afternoon when the plane took off and as it gained altitude the alcohol really took effect and made him even drunker. Still his insomnia prevented sleep from coming, so through befogged eyes he looked out the cur- tained window over the massive peaks of the Alps. The setting sun made a kaleidoscope of color on the glistening snow, bringing it to dancing life. The pilot took the time to make a complete circle of Mont Blanc. Clay stared at the monster dully, seeing at last how huge it was, how inaccessible, how formidable. Remembering that veteran mountain climbers referred to Blanc sneeringly as “kid stuff,” he marveled that anyone had ever negotiated the treacherous-looking ridges and glaciers. He experienced @ powerful urge to hurl himself from the plane to see ifCHEATING WIVES 89 he could not land in the snow at the summit. Then he promised himself that he would come back some day and really climb it. Gradually the red sun sank over the rim of the world below them, ricocheting blindingly off the silver wing, making each rivet a tiny dot of fire. On the ground, pin- points of light appeared and Clay felt a swift twinge of envy for people who lived together in little farmhouses, warm and secure and unperturbed by such ‘things as love and infidelity and jealousy and fear. The stewardess stopped to ask if he wanted a pillow and he said no, that he was not tired. She wore a pale blue uniform and an absurd hat perched atop her chestnut hair, Like most uniforms it was cut to display the physical charms of the wearer. The skirt was tight over the hips, revealing the firmness of the double swellings and out- lining the ridges of her underthings. The dizziness in Clay’s brain gave him a peculiar sensitivity to details. For instance, he noted that the symmetry of the inward curve of her loins was in direct ratio to the outward curve of her flanks. She had taken off her jacket and through her semi- sheer blouse the straps of her slip and bra were visible. The blouse made a straight bridge between her breasts. As she walked the bridge swayed and more than once he had to tear his eyes away lest he reach out a speculative hand. The girl moved with such grace and smiled so sweetly and spoke so softly that all the blunted love in his heart seemed to erupt when she came near. And for all her efficiency, he felt a mysteriousness exude from her, as though her body must be the loveliest, warmest and most delicious in the world. Whenever she knelt or bent down to attend to a passenger, the uniform tautened madden- ingly across the compactness of her hips. One stockinged knee gleamed. Clay Gordon closed his eyes. A sudden revelation had come to him. What he missed most about Leigh was her90 CHEATING WIVES Physical presence. Her nearness, her proximity to him—~ the reality of her body. If what he felt for her was love in its purest sense, then no matter where she might be he could receive solace. But his torture could only be ended by her body. Was that, then, what his love consisted of? The need of feel her arms about him, her breasts as twin points of flame to his chest, her figure incomparably soft to his? He knew then that the agony he had gone through over Leigh could be ended, however briefly, by finding a receptacle for the surge of his passion. This stewardess, whom he had never met, could, he knew, supply him with the medicine to make him whole again. The thought was a terrifying one. For it meant, if valid, that he had been living under a delusion, that Leigh Harder had been litte more than a fetish for him, a saucepan to catch the overflow of his love for Betsy. And it also meant that he had betrayed his wife. Betsy—did he even love her? Gentle and young and naive Betsy, with her flawless, tanned body that had known only his lips and his hands and his body... If he could feel a thrust of affection and desire for an unknown then be must truly be a monster, a sex-mad, selfish, egotistical monster. And what he had felt for the entire endless week in Geneva was nothing less than puer- ile self-pity. The significance of this chain of thought was sufficient to yank him to a certain degree of sobriety. Now that he was on the path to knowing himself and what motivated him, the future did not seem nearly so forbidding or grim. As though a strong acid had eaten through the protective lead coating of a safe to expose the valuables within, he suddenly felt richer, freer. The dull ache was still there in his chest, but now he understood it and no longer was afraid of it—nor was he apprehensive about the impend- ing meeting with Betsy. The sin he had committed was not so much against her as against himselfi—and perhaps she too would understand.CHEATING WIVES 91 A smothering bank of clouds had settled heavily over Le Bourget Field outside of Paris and the pilot of the liner began to make wide circles to find a spot through which to sink. When he dipped into the cottony layers the lights on the wingtips vanished and whiteness swirled past Clay’s window. The seat seemed to drop out from under him and push him against his safety belt. Down, down, and still down. The plane slanted into the unknown. The wings wobbled. Then, startlingly, the dive ceased and the plane was struggling to regain altitude. They had broken through the clouds and just ahead and to the left Clay made out the vague shape of a church spire. The motors were roar- ing powerfully, pulling the craft up. It canted to the right sharply. Through it all Clay had regarded the maneuver with a curious detachment. He was not taking part in this, it had nothing to do with him. No fear raced through him, as it must have through the others in the plane. Death held no terrors for him and he had almost expected to see the wing sheered off by the tip of the steeple. Even then he would have been only interested to see how the plane would behave as it hurtled to the earth at one hun- dred and fifty miles an hour. The stewardess, from her seat in the rear, was calmly telling everyone to relax, that there was nothing to be afraid of. But her voice quavered as she said it. Clay smiled. For the first time in over a week he smiled. He could feel the thing on his face like an alien substance. But it felt good. The plane would make it safely. He knew that. The others did not know it, but he knew. They were totally unaware that the indestructible Clay Gordon was on board. This was “kid stuff.” Betsy Gordon awakened to the rude summons of the telephone jangling in her ear. She rolled over, offeringy2 CHEATING WIVES her pajama-clad back, but the instrument refused to ac- cept it and continued to ring. Finally, soggy with sleep, she groped for the wretched thing, uncradled it and placed it in the general region of her ear. “Mmmmm?” “Betsy?” A man’s voice, harsh and authoritative, sliced through the fog. “Mmmm? Yes.” “Bart Harder. Are you awake?” “No.” Then, “Oh, Mr, Harder. What is it?” A current of panic rippled her abdomen. “Is it about Clay?” Phone calls at odd hours always terrified her. “Not exactly. I’m in the lobby downstairs. I'm coming up.” “But you can’t. I'm still in bed, Mr. Harder. In paja- mas.” Last week’s scene with Bart raced brilliantly across the blackboard of her mind. “I won't stay long, Betsy. I must talk to you.” “Can’t you tell me what it is on the phone? If it’s about Clay—” The luminous dial on her watch glowed in the dark. “It’s after four o’clock, Mr. Harder.” “Tm coming up.” It was a voice that did not take no for an answer. The phone clicked in her ear. Betsy sat up, her hand on the pillow, the pajamas twisted around her torse. They were Clay’s and much too big for her and he always laughed when he saw her in them, saying she looked like a fugitive from a traveling circus. Automatically, she reached for the bathrobe that hung over the back of the chair next to the bed and slipped it on. It was a long way" from being the most glamorous garment in the world, but it was practical. Besides, it might serve to rid Bart Harder of any naughty ideas that might be rampaging in his brain. Flicking on the bed-lamp she caught a quick glimpse of herself in the bureau mirror—a bundle of clothing with a sleep-pale face topped with a tangle of dark hair. She was yawning at her reflection when the knock came.CHEATING WIVES 93 Betsy pushed back the long sleeves so that her hands would be free. As she walked to the door she watched the pink toes of her feet as they alternately appeared and disappeared under the wideness of the pajama bottoms. How silly she looked. Wouldn’t Clay laugh to see her now! After a second’s attention to her hair she touched the knob. Odd how her heart was beating irregularly, as though it were trying to warn her of something. Then she opened the door and admitted the Old Man. Bart Harder had been drinking. Betsy did not need a lab test to determinate that. His breath was heavy with the odor of liquor. But he was not drunk. Bart Harder was not the type to get drunk—he had told her that once. The Original bottomless pit. As though he had two wooden legs. He breathed at her. “Betsy. Thank heaven you were in.” “Come in, Mr. Harder. Here’s a chair. What is it? You sounded as if it had something to do with Clay. Is he hurt? Has there been an accident?” Right then she was not Betsy Gordon—she was simply a network of nerves and senses devoted to worrying about her husband. Terror filled her throat and she felt tears burn at her eyelids. “First off,” Bartley Harder grunted heavily, “Clay is all right. As far as I know. In this business no news is good news, So set your pretty little head at rest over that.” He dug into the pocket of his rumpled coat and ex- tracted a crumpled back of cigarettes. He lit one and exhaled volcanically. Then he leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs and loosed a massive sigh. He had a good head, a leonine mass, the kind that would look good on a tombstone or atop a monument. The iron-grey hair clung closely to the skull; the nose jutted like the chin— challengingly. Virility oozed from every pore—this was94 CHEATING WIVES a man who had worked, played and loved hard all his life. Bart Harder’s presence filled the room and Betsy felt an urge to get away where she could move freely. As it was, she felt slightly trapped. She tugged the bathrobe tighter, “I just left Joyce,” Harder said around a cloud of smoke. “Oh, How is she?” Betsy was not in the mood for small- talk but, after all, this was Clay’s employer. “I mean,” he said slowly, “I left her.” “Oh. I see. Excuse me for being thick but I—” Then it sank in. “You left her! But why!” The big muscular body shook in a silent chuckle, “We had a fight.” “Goodness, that’s nothing to leave anyone over.” Betsy’s maternal instinct came to the surface as she forgot about Clay and that Bart Harder was a man with male instincts. Her concern was real—she thought he had come to her for solace. “Would you like me to call her, Mr, Harder? Tm sure she’ll listen to reason.” Harder grinned tightly, drawing his lips back over his teeth. “The fight was over you, Betsy.” One eyebrow lifted quizzically. “Me?” . “You.” The big man stood up, hands on hips, cigarette smoke trailing upward. “I told her I had fallen in love with you.” He tapped an ash to the floor. “She didn’t like it.” Betsy’s hand went to her throat. “Whatever did you tell her that for?” - “Because it’s true, that’s why.” Strong fingers snapped the cigarette against the wall and red sparks rained to the rug. Harder ignored them, He went to her and gripped her arms. “It’s true, Betsy. You know. You've known it all along.” “But I didn’t,” Betsy protested. “I’m married to Clay,”CHEATING WIVES 95 she added in a weak voice. “He’s—he’s my husband.” Harder was breathing heavily now as he pulled her close to him. His powerful body throbbed against hers, sending a stab of fear through her. He was so big and menacing and strong. “Betsy,” he said hoarsely. His mouth met hers angrily, forcing her lips apart. She tried to ward him off but her arms were immovable in his grip. “Don’t you understand what I’m saying, Betsy? I love you. I want to give you everything I have. I’ve given up my family for you.” Inexorably he was forcing her to the bed. The edge met the back of her knees, folding them, and then she went down. Harder rested on one knee above her, his face flushed, his eyes shining hungrily. It occurred to her that he was a little out of his senses. Even that time at the apartment when he had behaved irrationally, his eyes had been clear. She could feel he was at the edge of violence—and instinctively knew that danger lurged in those massive hands, She realized that she must keep her head. The hands were fumbling at the bathrobe and then at the buttons of her pajamas. There was a little snap as one gave way, and then the hands were coarsely fondling the unprotected flesh. One muscled thigh was gradually forcing her limbs apart. In a voice she had to fight to keep from straying into a scream she said, “Bart. This it not the way. Relax. Re- lax.” For a moment she wondered if he had heard—if he could hear. Her heart ceased beating for at eternity, as though suspended between life and death. At last a twisted smile appeared on the face above and then it was receding as Harder left the bed and stood up. “Sorry,” he mumbled, reaching for a cigarette. “I lost my head for a second. You do that to me, Betsy. You're right,96 CHEATING WIVES though. It’s better to take it easy. I knew you'd see it my way.” Harder inhaled deeply. Betsy watched him carefully, uncertain as to her next move. He made it for her, “A divorce isn’t necessary,” he said. “For either of us. We can work out a little arrangement and no one will ever know.” “Know what?” Betsy inquired dazedly. “About you and me. I can see to it that Clay gets sent away on extended assigmments—where he can’t take you. Joyce will go to Florida and stay in the house there. We can get you a nice place on Riverside Drive. Do you like Riverside Drive?” “Yes. It’s lovely.” “Fine. Fine. I know just the place.” He was talking now like a man coming out of an ether sleep. But—she noted —he was gradually shedding the clothing he wore. Time was growing short. “Suppose, Bart, suppose I don’t agree to the arrangement? What then?” Harder grinned. “Do you think ['d kill you? No. Al- though I must confess I was close to it a minute ago. No, IT couldn’t kill you, Betsy. But for a while I know you'll be attached to Clay. Well, since Clay works for me, he is dependent on me and my moods. He’s a good man. The board has its eyes on him. They think he'll go places. He will—if I don’t stop him. He’s got a great career ahead of him—providing his wife stays friendly to me.” The eye- brows went up again. “But of course it won't be neces- sary to use coercion. We understand one another, you and I, Betsy.” He was almost entirely disrobed. Betsy sat up. “Give me a few minutes in the bathroom, won't you?” She lowered her eyes shyly. “As long as you like—I'll be right here.” He indicated the bed. Betsy shuddered inwardly, What was it in their make- ups that allowed men to have such enormous egos when itCHEATING WIVES 97 came to sexual prowess? Did this gorilla think that the sight of his bared chest lifted her to heights of ecstasy? Or that the simple fact that her husband had been away for ten days meant she was panting like a dog in need of servicing? Was it because sex for such a man was just another commodity to be bought and sold like a dozen lines of news from Madagascar? In the bathroom she looked around frantically. Forta- mately she had undressed there earlier and had left her things lying in a heap on the floor. If Clay saw it he would blow up—he always said she was the world’s worst house- keeper. As she picked up the clothing she made an attempt to hum a tune. Harder’s voice came through the closed door. “You won't regret this, I promise, Betsy. There may be snow on the roof but there’s fire in the furnace. Haw haw. You'll have things you never dreamed of having. A car of your own. Servants. A charge account at the best stores on Fifth Avenue. What kind of jewelry do you like?” And on and on he went, like a judge reciting a list of traffic violations. Betsy tugged panties over her legs and hips and let the elastic snap against her abdomen. No time for the bra. Then the dress, which she literally dragged over her head and pulled down quickly. Into the pockets of the bath- robe she stuffed crumpled nylons and loafers, Her purse? Darn it, it was on the bed-table. She drew the belt of the bathrobe tight over the dress and drew the collar up around her neck. The hem of the dress she hauled up under the edge of the robe. Then she sucked in a deep breath. This was it. Bart Harder was lying on the bed without a stitch on. At the sight of her he smiled intimately. “Modest, aren’t you? Well, I like modest girls, But you'll get over it in a while.” His hands were laced behind his great head. Now that it seemed Betsy was within easy reach he was no longer impatient. He could afford to wait and be the strong, si-98 CHEATING WIVES lent male. After all, what woman could resist the sight of an available, potent man on her bed? Forcing herself to walk slowly Betsy went to the bed and looked down at him. For a man some twenty years her senior he was certainly in fine physical condition. But as far as appeal, there was none in him for her. He was just a lump of tissue. With her hands in the pockets she was able to hide the heels of the shoes that peeked out. She sidled to the bed- table. The black bag with its long shining strap rested on the edge. “Do you mind?” she asked, touching the light with her hand. “I prefer complete darkness.” “Anything you say, Betsy. We can start looking at places tomorrow. Agreeable?” “Agreeable.” One trembling finger pushed the button and the light went out. “And the door,” she said softly. “I have a fear about having a snoopy chambermaid walk- ing into the room in the morning.” “Lock it,” Harder’s voice said buskily. He shifted his bulk on the bed, making the springs squeak. Betsy’s fingers closed about the strap and she lifted gently. Then she was feeling for the doorknob. She found it, rattled it convincingly, and then turned it. It came to- ward her noiselessly. A sliver of light darted in from the hallway. “Hey,” Harder snapped. “You're opening it.” “Yes,” Betsy answered. “And closing it, too.” She closed it—behind her—and raced down the car- peted corridor for the elevator. From the room came an outraged cry of anger. But she knew she had a few min- utes before he could get enough clothes on to be decent. As if he could be decent. The panic and terror had left her in the suspense of the last minutes and she fled on light feet, excited and happy. No time to wait for the elevator. She found the stairs and skipped down them, her bag flapping heavily against one thigh. That was her suitcase, really. Lipstick, comb,CHEATING WIVES 99 brush, tissues, extra nylons and the best thing of all—a book of travelers’ checks Clay had given her for emer- gencies. She raced into the alleyway and went toward the lighted street at the end, taking time only to shed the bathrobe and pot on her loafers. At the corner was an empty taxi- cab. She got in and told the driver to head downtown. That would give her time to think. As the cab moved through the deserted, early morning streets, past milk trucks and paper trucks and garbage trucks, it occurred to her that Bart Harder had not been kidding about Clay’s career. He was quite capable of wrecking it, as well as wrecking their marriage. For whea Clay got back and saw Harder, there was no telling what he would be told. She wondered if Clay would understand—and listen to the truth. 9 SoMEHOW SHE got through the day. Later, she had vague recollections of walking for blocks looking for a store where she could buy a coat. Then for one to get shoes and all the other things she needed. It never entered her mind to return to the hotel, even though she knew Bart would not be there. Fortunately, the sum in travelers’ checks came to quite a bit of money so she was not worried on that score, Just when she thought of St. Paul she didn’t know. It might have been while she rode the subway to Brooklyn and back for lack of anything better to do. But when the name popped into her head she realized at once she was going there to see her Aunt Martha and Uncle Charley. There she would be able to take her shoes off, flop on a couch and not have to answer any questions. After that, her thinking began to channel properly and100 CHEATING WIVES she managed to put together a passable wardrobe, drop- ping the things she had brought, piece by piece and store by store, into the equally new suitcase. Betsy stepped aboard the westbound train at seven-ten. By seven-twenty she was settled in her compartment, leaf- ing through a magazine. All in all, she was behaving quite well for a woman who had just lost her husband and damned near had herself raped. And she was perversely proud of how she was holding up under the circumstances. She might have made it too if her eye had not fallen on an illustration for a boy-meets-girl story. Depicted were a couple of oh-so-cute people, the candy-pretty girl with a look of rapt adoration on her face. That wasn’t so bad— it was the guy who got her. He wore a look of pained amusement that made him look so much like Clay, Betsy almost cried out. The next think she knew, she was sitting there with tears streaming down her face like water from a melting icicle. Inside, the motor that had propelled ber dazedly through the day suddenly ran out of gas. During those hectic hours she had frequently felt the tug of tears and somehow had prevented them from flowing. Now, slowed to a complete stop with nothing to occupy her mind, un- able to read insipid words in an insipid magazine, some- thing snapped. The full awfulness of a life without Clay settled like a rock in the pit of her stomach. A numbness went into her limbs as if a needle full of morphine had been plunged into her. The tears flowed and the illness in her threat- ened to erupt. The jarring memory of Bart Harder’s lascivious features slobbering down at her made her dizzy. The worst part was the sense of utter desolation. The world seemed to have forsaken her, forgotten her, she was moving among other people without being seen. Long ago someone had told her, “A woman without love is only half a woman.” Now she knew it was true. The loss: of Clay—and she was certain she had lost him by now—wasCHEATING WIVES 101 as real as the loss of a limb or an organ. No wonder peo- ple looked past her—she probably appeared less than whole to their gaze. It must show in her face. She touched her hand to her mouth, the mouth that Clay so loved to kiss. Then lower, over her slender neck, passing slowly over the rise of her breasts, Oh, why hadn’t she turned to him that terrible night at the hotel when she pretended she did not love him. She had felt his body burning against her and if only she had softened and answered with just one kiss, everything would be all right now. If he had gone after the Harder girl then it was as much her fault as his. The magazine slid to the floor, pages fluttering like the wings of a wounded sparrow. There was a discreet tap on the door. It was the porter, ma’m, would she like her berth made up now? Betsy let him in to do his work, then, see- ing she was in the way, went out into the corridor. The door opened at the end of the car and for a moment she heard the sound of laughter, healthy male laughter, and the clink of glasses. The next car down was the club car. That was what she needed—some company. Much more of this and she would be a raving maniac. Yes, she should get back into normal surroundings where people could laugh and smile and tell jokes. As she made her way toward the exit the train swayed and she lurched against the window, barely stopping her- self from falling. That was silly—she had never staggered on trains before. Giddiness swept her and she giggled. Of course. She had not taken a bite to eat all day. She was just weak from hunger. And all along she had thought it was the ache of lost love in her stomach. Well, she would put something in it right away. The club car was partially filled, mainly with men in conservative business suits who sat in the plush chairs and sipped and smoked and talked as if they were at a board meeting. Now and then a raucous guffaw burst from a group at the far end as a whispered joke reached102 CHEATING WIVES its climax. The buzz of laughter and the lurching of the train dizzied her. Betsy groped for a chair and sat down. Ordinarily she would have felt conspicuous being there with so many men, but somehow it seemed perfectly all right now. Safe and secure. Not like last night—or was it last year?— when Bart Harder had terrorized her, These men wouldn't do that. Would they? When the white-coated steward padded up to her, carrying a tray full of glasses, she ordered a stinger. It was a peculiarly appropriate drink for tonight. Outside, the night sped past with the lights in the trackside houses making white blurs. Underneath, the wheels clack-clacked on the rails soothingly. At intervals all lights vanished and she had the impression of hurtling through a black tunnel without end. Then a new vision cropped up—that of an- other train speeding from the opposite direction on the same track and she held her breath for the collision. But there was no collision—just the steward with her drink. It may have been her imagination but she thought he looked at her queerly as he turned away. Spotting a wooden bow! full of potato chips and an- other of nuts, she began to devour them. No one noticed, so she finished off both bowls and then sipped from the fragile glass. The sweetish mint liquid floated over her tongue and seeped warmly into her chest. And it didn’t even taste like liquor or alcohol. In less than a minute the glass was empty and she licked her lips. The steward shrugged and brought another. She was on her third when a deep, soft voice said, “I could try to be original but I won't bother. Haven't we met somewhere before?” Betsy looked up. A tall man with a tangle of black hair and a friendly grin on his face was looming over her. She saw at once that his suit was expensive and impeccable. Strong white teeth shone between the parted lips, His skin was a rich mahogany tan.CHEATING WIVES 103 “Very likely. Were you in Cairo last month?” “Of course. Second pyramid from the left. Ah, yes, that’s where your smile came from—the Sphinx. I knew it was familiar. May I sit down? I’m trying to pick you up.” “You may sit down,” she heard herself say. “I won't predict if you will succeed or not.” “] like suspense, too.” The intense eyes all but ate her up. And the voice. It was a remarkable sound, resonant, and with a certain rhythm that pleased her ear. Had she heard it before? “Now I should say I don’t ordinarily al- Jow men to sit next to me on club cars but you are differ- ent.” “Consider it said,” he answered, signaling the steward to bring a drink. A warm glow suffused her. The man had a most en- gaging manner and smile. Confidence oozed from him, and she wanted suddenly to hold his hand. “Do you have a name?” he asked. “Yes. The name is Betsy.” “A pretty name for a pretty girl. You know, when I came in here I decided immediately you were the only attractive person on the whole train. You haven’t disap- pointed me. Yet. I suppose Mr. Betsy is within shouting distance?” “No. Not unless you can shout four thousand miles.” “Music to my ears.” The skin was taut and smooth over his high cheek- bones and when he smiled, his eyes laughed most. He had a good jaw-line and a firm mouth, with regular features that becomingly missed being too handsome. A bell of warning rang inside her, telling her that she was stepping into deep water, but a recklessness had hold of her now and she felt no fear at all. “My name is Jeff Holden,” he said, his eyes on her face. “A handsome name for a handsome man,” she said. Amusement flickered across his face.